Summary: As the final season of Stranger Things approaches, you and Joe have one very important spoiler not to give away. But keeping something private becomes harder when the whole world is watching and your husband can’t seem to keep his hands off you.
Warnings: fluff, established relationship, pregnancy, emotional moments
English isn't my first language, so be understandable and gentle, thanks!
Word count: +3k
Author's note: Hey! Another fic in less than two days, it's a record! This was honestly so cute to write, I love husband Joe so much, he's such a dork but the sweetest at the same time.
Based on this request.
Masterlist
You had been staring at yourself in the mirror for so long that you honestly couldn't tell anymore whether your outfit looked good on you or not. You shifted your weight and ran your palms over the material at your waist one more time before glancing at the clock hanging on the wall.
You were already running late.
Not disastrously late, not yet, but close enough that someone from your team would inevitably text you in the next two minutes asking you where the hell you were.
Still, you found yourself lingering in front of the mirror.
You couldn't wrap your head around the fact that the moment had finally come.
After years of table reads and endless shoots, of friendships formed in trailers and on freezing sets at three in the morning, Stranger Things was ending.
There were still interviews to do, of course, press days ahead of you, screenings and weeks before the final season actually belonged to the audience but tonight, the last premiere, marked the end of an era.
The realization sat somewhere beneath your ribs, heavy and tender.
You didn't know how you were supposed to say goodbye to something that had given you so much.
A career.
Friends who had become a second family to you.
A life you never could have imagined when ten years ago you'd walked onto set for the first time.
And Joe.
Especially him.
Your husband, you reminded yourself. Even months after the wedding, the word still occasionally appeared in your mind with the same strange little spark of disbelief. Every once in a while, one of you would say husband or wife in conversation and the other would smile like an idiot.
You hoped that part never went away.
Your eyes lifted to your own reflection again before looking down.
While one chapter was ending, another — one far bigger than either of you or Joe had ever imagined — had already begun.
You couldn't have been happier, yet you couldn't remember the last time you'd been this nervous.
Slowly, you turned sideways, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your hips before your hands instinctively found the gentle curve of your stomach. It had become second nature over the past few weeks ever since the two of you had found out you were expecting a baby.
You tilted your head, studying your reflection from every angle, trying to decide if anyone else would notice what your eyes seemed determined to find every single time.
“Honey?”
Joe's voice carried from the other side of the suite. A second later, he appeared in the doorway, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket.
"You ready? The car's already—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes landing on you immediately. For a moment, he simply stared, a soft smile slowly spreading across his face.
"Wow."
Heat immediately crept into your cheeks as you tried not to smile.
“Thanks. That was very... articulate."
"Give me a second."
He walked farther into the room, still looking at you.
"I'm processing."
"Oh, are you?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "I mean, have you seen yourself?"
You laughed under your breath.
His smile widened at the sound. Then his expression softened.
"You look beautiful."
Your shoulders relaxed despite yourself.
No matter how many times he looked at you like that, it still managed to steal your breath away every time.
"Thank you," you murmured, smiling shyly.
He came to stand behind you, his hands finding your hips almost automatically. You looked at the two of you in the mirror and for a second, some of the tension in your chest loosened. Then you turned sideways again.
"Are you sure you can't tell?"
His brows pulled together.
"Tell what?"
You looked at him through the mirror.
"Joe."
"I'm kidding."
“You’re not helping."
"I know."
You pressed your palm gently against your stomach.
“It seems bigger tonight.”
He studied your reflection.
"It's not.”
"You're legally obligated to say that."
"I don't think that's part of the vows."
"It was in the fine print."
“Damn, I should've read those."
Joe smiled, but when you didn't, the teasing faded from his face. He stepped closer, his hand slipping over yours. The warmth of his palm covered your fingers where they rested against the small swell beneath your dress, and something about the gesture made your throat tighten unexpectedly.
Four months.
It still sounded unreal when you thought it.
Four months pregnant.
Even now, there were mornings when you woke up and forgot for three or four seconds. Then Joe would roll toward you in his sleep, or you'd feel the strange new heaviness in your body, or your hand would drift instinctively downward, and the reality of it would rush back all at once.
There was a baby.
Your baby.
A tiny person somehow growing quietly in the middle of your otherwise ridiculously busy life.
The bump was beginning to show now, still subtle enough to be mistaken for a little bloating or a few extra pounds, but noticeable enough that you had started paying attention to how certain clothes fell over your stomach. Having been around Hollywood long enough, you were acutely aware of how the machine operated. The moment anyone spotted the slightest shadow of a rounded stomach, the pregnancy rumors would start flying. But you weren't ready for it to become something everyone else could talk about yet. Which was exactly why you and Joe had been so careful and had decided to keep the pregnancy private for a little while longer. Only your families and a handful of close friends knew.
“Hey.”
Joe's thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“When I look at you, I only see the most beautiful woman I've ever met."
You couldn't help smiling.
“Joe... I’m serious.”
"So am I."
He turned you gently so you were facing him rather than the mirror.
"There is nothing to worry about."
"You don't think people will notice?"
"No."
His answer came so quickly that you didn’t believe him.
"Joe."
"They won't."
He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before cupping your face. You searched his eyes, trying to figure out whether he was sincere or was simply saying whatever he thought would calm you down.
He smiled, impossibly soft.
"Everyone will be way too busy staring at how gorgeous you are to notice anything else."
A quiet laugh escaped you as you rolled your eyes.
"That's a terrible attempt at distracting me."
“But is it working?”
You shook your head with a fond smile, feeling some of the tension finally leave your body.
“Maybe. Just a little."
"I'll take it."
Joe leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.
It wasn't that you wanted to hide the pregnancy. Quite the opposite. But this wasn’t the right timing to break the news to the entire world.
This week wasn't yours. Not really. It belonged to the show. To all the cast. And to the incredible job they'd done in the last ten years.
When your relationship with Joe had gone public years earlier, the internet had exploded. The reactions from the audience had been overwhelmingly positive. Fans had spent months rooting for your characters, convinced their chemistry couldn't possibly be fake and seeing the two of you finally together off-screen had felt, to many of them, like fiction bleeding into real life.
You had been grateful for the support. You still were. People had been overwhelmingly kind about the two of you. But you also remembered sitting beside other cast members during interviews and feeling the conversation change inevitably toward you and Joe.
When did you know?
Who made the first move?
Was it difficult playing a couple before becoming one?
Did everyone on set know?
And every interview became the same conversation.
Every headline revolved around the two of you.
Every appearance without the other turned into endless speculation about your relationship.
But tonight the last thing you wanted was to cast a shadow over anyone else's hard work or hijack the entire night by dropping the news of your pregnancy.
"I just don't want tonight to turn into something else," you murmured.
Joe's hands settled more securely at your waist.
"I know."
"It's their night too."
"Our night," he corrected gently.
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
You looked down at the space between you.
"I don't want everyone spending the next week asking us about this instead of asking about our job."
“I know.”
He leaned in and pressed a kiss near your temple.
"They won't."
You tipped your head back.
"You absolutely cannot promise that."
"No," he admitted. "But I can promise we’ll do our best to keep this hidden. And if, somehow, someone notices and starts asking questions..."
He shrugged lightly.
"We lie.”
“We lie?”
“Yeah, we lie to them. We’re actors, after all, remember?”
You laughed as he pulled you closer until his nose brushed yours. His eyes dropped briefly. His hand followed, resting carefully against your stomach. The touch was so tender that it made something inside you ache. His thumb moved slowly over the fabric.
“Our little secret.”
Your smile softened.
For the first time since getting dressed, you felt your shoulders loosen completely.
Joe held out his hand.
"Ready, Mrs. Keery?"
You nodded. “Ready.”
You slid your fingers through his and followed him out of the room, this time without looking back at the mirror.
-
The car ride to the premiere passed in a blur.
Joe stepped out first, then turned back and offered you his hand.
The second your heels touched the carpet, the flashes began, hundreds of them going off in rapid succession as photographers called your names from behind the barricades.
“Joe! Over here!"
"Together!"
"Look this way!"
You smiled automatically, falling into the rhythm you'd known for years.
There had been a time when red carpets had terrified you. You'd never quite known what to do with your hands or where to look, and you'd always worried that someone would catch you doing something awkward. Joe had been the one to make it easier, usually by whispering something ridiculous in your ear right before a photo.
His hand settled at the small of your back as you moved into position beside him, and the familiar pressure grounded you instantly.
"You good?" he murmured.
You looked at him.
“Yeah."
Joe smiled at you, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache. He could be standing in front of hundreds of photographers, surrounded by people calling his name, and somehow still look at you as though you were the only person in the room. It was one of the things you'd fallen in love with long before either of you had ever admitted it — back when you were still pretending you were just friends.
Others cameras turned in your direction.
"Look at each other!"
"Joe, closer!”
“Can we have a kiss? Just one.”
"One more!" a photographer called.
You turned toward the cameras again.
Joe moved closer, his arm slipping around your waist. You leaned into him instinctively. And then his hand shifted.
Lower.
It was such a familiar movement that neither of you registered it immediately.
Until his palm rested directly over the small curve of your stomach.
You froze for a heartbeat, your body going rigid against his. Joe’s eyes shot downward, a sudden flash of understanding crossing his face as he realized where his hand was resting and pulled it back to your waist. Your eyes locked in a silent panic, though you didn't even have time to wonder if anyone had seen it, or if the photographers had caught the moment — the cameras immediately started going off louder and faster than before.
Click.
Click.
Click.
You forced yourself to keep smiling and acting with nonchalance, as if nothing had happened.
The rest of the evening went almost exactly as you'd imagined, making you forget everything for a moment, and eventually you made your way inside for the screening.
By the time the final sequence ended, your vision was so blurred with tears that you could barely make out the screen. Beside you, Joe silently held out a tissue that you took it without looking.
"You okay?" he whispered.
You nodded, dabbing carefully beneath your eyes, trying not to destroy whatever remained of your makeup.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
He studied you for another second, clearly not entirely convinced.
"Are you sure?"
A small laugh escaped you as you leaned closer to him.
"Yeah. It's just the hormones," you murmured, lowering your voice. “Everything feels… bigger.”
Joe reached for your hand, his expression changing instantly and the teasing falling away.
"You need anything?"
"No."
"Water?"
"I'm okay."
"Food?"
"Joe."
"I'm just asking."
You smiled and rested your head against his shoulder.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Around you, people were wiping their faces, hugging one another, laughing through tears.
It struck you suddenly that this was really it.
The end of an era.
You remembered your first day.
The first scene you and Joe had filmed together, back when kissing him had been part of the job and not yet something your body knew instinctively.
The first time you'd kissed when there wasn't a camera pointed at you.
You looked down at your fingers, the wedding ring pressing lightly against his.
Joe followed your gaze.
"What?" he whispered.
You shook your head.
"Nothing."
He gave you a look that said he knew better.
You smiled, sighing.
"It's just weird."
"What is?"
"All of this ending. I’ll miss it.”
He was quiet. Then you felt his head rest lightly against yours.
“Yeah."
Your free hand moved unconsciously toward your stomach.
Joe noticed.
"I don't know whether to be devastated or happy," you whispered.
"You can be both."
You looked at him.
"I think I am."
"Me too."
He lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles.
You stayed like that until the lights came up.
-
You woke to pale morning light and the vague sense that something was wrong. Not physically. For once, your stomach was behaving. The room was quiet, the curtains only half-closed, a thin stripe of sunlight stretching across the carpet.
You turned your head. Joe was still asleep beside you, one arm stretched across the empty space between you, his face buried halfway into the pillow.
You smiled.
He looked completely peaceful.
Careful not to wake him, you reached for your phone on the nightstand.
Your brows furrowed as you stared at the screen.
There were hundreds of notifications. Texts. Missed calls. Messages. Social media alerts.
That wasn't unusual after a premiere, especially one as big as this.
You unlocked your phone and opened the first message.
Your stomach dropped.
Have you seen Twitter?
Don't panic.
And then another, this time from Maya.
You two need to wake up. NOW!
You sat up slowly and opened Twitter. The first post you saw was a photograph of you and Joe on the red carpet with his hand resting on your stomach.
You stared at it. For several seconds, you couldn't move. Then you started scrolling.
There were thousand of posts like that.
Is Joe's hand on her stomach?
Guys...
Am I the only one seeing this?
She's been wearing looser dresses lately.
Could they actually be...
You swallowed.
I'm calling it now. She and Joe are expecting.
Your heart began beating faster. You kept scrolling even though every sensible part of your brain told you to stop.
There were zoomed-in versions of the photograph, side-by-side comparisons with photos from previous public appearances and fans analyzing the way you'd stood, how the dress fitted on you, your posture.
It was exactly what you and Joe had feared.
Everyone was talking about you and your alleged pregnancy.
You locked your phone and dropped it onto your lap. For a moment, you simply sat there, staring at the ceiling of your room. Then you glanced at Joe. He hadn't moved an inch, still fast asleep and completely oblivious to everything.
The sharp vibration of your phone broke the silence. Another notification. This time from your publicist.
Call me when you're awake. No emergency, but we need to talk about this before today's press.
Beneath there was a link, your finger hovered for a second before clicking it.
BREAKING NEWS: JOE KEERY AND WIFE SPARK PREGNANCY RUMORS AFTER STRANGER THINGS PREMIERE
You exhaled slowly and turned toward Joe, calling his name to wake him up; when he didn't stir, you reached over and gently shook his shoulder.
"Joe."
He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a hum and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
"Five more minutes, please.”
Despite everything, a laugh almost escaped you. Normally, you would have let him sleep but this time, you couldn't.
“Joe,” you tried again.
“Three minutes."
"No."
"One and a half."
You shook his shoulder again, harder this time.
“Babe, you need to wake up. Now.”
The urgency in your voice finally reached him.
Joe's eyes flew open and he pushed himself upright.
“What's wrong? Are you okay?”
The question came out sharp with panic. His eyes immediately searched your face, then dropped instinctively toward your stomach.
You shook your head quickly.
"No, I'm fine.”
"Is the baby?"
"No," you said softly. "The baby is fine too."
He let out a breath, his shoulders finally dropping as some of the tension left his body.
"Okay," he murmured. "You scared the hell out of me."
"I'm sorry. It's not that."
His brows furrowed.
"Then what is it?"
You hesitated before turning the phone toward him.
"Look."
Joe squinted at the screen, still trying to wake up properly. He stared at the photograph for a few seconds before a sleepy smile appeared on his face.
"Oh, we look good."
You gave him a look.
"Joe."
"What?" He looked at you, genuinely confused. "We do."
"Look at the picture.”
"I am."
"No. Look at it. Better.”
He glanced back at the screen, his eyes moving over the photograph again. Then they stopped, his smile slowly disappearing as he finally realized what you were really showing him.
"Oh."
"That's the one."
"Yeah."
"The picture."
"Yeah."
He sat up a little straighter, taking the phone from your hand, and started scrolling, his eyes moving rapidly over the article.
"How many-"
"A lot."
He kept scrolling.
"Shit."
You watched whatever remained of sleep leave his face.
“I know. I woke up to four hundred notifications.”
Joe sighed.
"I knew they got pictures. I just..." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I didn't think anyone would care."
You gave him a look.
"About a photograph of your hand on my stomach?"
"When you say it like that, I can hear how stupid it sounds."
"A little."
He looked back at the phone.
"I mean, I touch you all the time."
"I know."
"My hands are constantly somewhere."
You raised an eyebrow.
He glanced at you.
"That came out wrong."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
His mouth twitched briefly before his expression fell again. He handed the phone back to you and dragged a hand over his face.
“I’m sorry, babe. I really screwed this up."
“No, Joe, you didn’t."
"I literally put my hand directly on—“
"You weren't thinking."
"Exactly."
"Joe."
He looked at you.
"I'm not mad, okay?”
His expression softened, but the worry didn't leave his eyes. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning.
Joe looked at you, then slowly lowered his gaze toward your stomach. He leaned back against the headboard, rubbing both hands over his face.
“Fuck, we were supposed to tell them when we were ready."
You sighed. ”I know. And now they're going to spend the next week asking questions and trying to figure it out while the focus should be on something else.”
“I know, babe. I’m sorry.”
He looked genuinely upset now.
Not because the secret had potentially been exposed but because he knew what came with it.
The questions.
The photographs.
The speculation.
The feeling of having something deeply personal turned into public property.
You reached for his hand.
"Hey."
He looked at you.
“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out."
His fingers tightened around yours.
"What do you want to do?"
The question caught you off guard. You looked down at your intertwined hands, your thumb slowly brushing over his knuckles.
”I don't know. I just… I just don't want this week to become about us.” You picked absently at the edge of the sheet. "And I know how this works. If we confirm it now, this is what will happen.”
You swallowed.
"I don't want Maya or Natalia sitting in an interview talking about the show and getting asked whether they knew I was pregnant or every article —”
“Hey. Calm down.”
His hand tightened around yours.
"We don't have to confirm anything if that's not what you want,” he said softly.
You looked up at him.
"And if people ask?"
“We just keep talking about the show. Or… we lie.”
"Stop suggesting that. You're terrible at lying."
His eyebrows lifted.
"What? I'm an actor."
"Yes, and you're an excellent actor but a terrible liar."
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
You smiled despite yourself. Joe shifted closer until his knee pressed against yours beneath the blanket.
"Let them think whatever they want,” he said after a moment. “Let them speculate. This is our baby. Our life. We don't have to give anyone a piece of it just because they think they've figured something out. It's something only you and I know, and we get to decide when or not we're ready to share it.”
You felt your eyes sting. Annoyed, you blinked rapidly.
“You’ll make me cry.”
His mouth curved.
"I can be mean if that helps."
"Please."
He thought for a second.
"Your feet are freezing me."
You stared at him.
"That's the best you can do?"
"I love you. It's limiting."
You laughed under your breath, but the tears arrived anyway.
Joe's expression softened immediately. He leaned closer, brushing his thumb gently beneath your eye. You closed them for a second, lingering in the warmth of his touch.
"Come here."
You moved into him without hesitation, letting him pull you against his chest and his arms wrapping around you carefully. You tucked your face into the space beneath his chin. The familiar smell of him, his skin and the faint trace of whatever cologne had survived the night before, surrounded you.
He kissed the top of your head. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek, steady and familiar. You let yourself sink into the warmth of him, allowing some of the tension that had been sitting in your chest since you woke up to finally ease.
Later, there would be interviews, cameras, questions and rumors waiting for you downstairs.
But right now, none of it mattered.
For now, it was just you, Joe, and the little secret growing quietly between you.
Before it became a headline, a question or something for the rest of the world to speculate about, it was yours.
As always, let me know what you thought! If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear from you in the comments or see you reblogging the fic.
Requests are open, so feel free to send them! I'd love to read your ideas and writing them :)
All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.
YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.
Masterlist
Pairing: '40s!Bucky Barnes x '40s Nurse F!Reader
Warning/Tags: Canon Divergence, Bucky is a menace, Angst, Smut (Porn with Plot!), Breeding kink, Heavy on historical inaccuracies, Military Inaccuracies, Cheating (Everyone cheats on everyone, okay?), Public Sex (Lots of it), Unprotected Sex and its obvious consequences, Happy Ending. If I'm missing any tag, I'll add them later.
Word Count: ~10.5k ('40s bucky does things to me)
Summary: Even when you have someone waiting for you at home, you start to fall for Bucky, and when you go back home to get married, he keeps reminding you that your heart is now somewhere else.
Author's Note: IT'S HERE! AND I LOVE THIS FOR ME. If you know me enough you know Sgt. Barnes has a very big piece of my heart. And after my series, 40's Bucky was my first fic ever posted. And if you ask, why my 40s Bucky always has something to do with Breeding kinks, eloping, running away, and getting someone knocked up... ask my ovulation. Thank you to my one and only for beta-reading this @kileyking and of course to my babiesss @w1nter-fairy @herejustforbuckybarnes! Love you three so much!
Nurse Williams is folding linens next to you as you finish writing down some reports on earlier patients. You see him walking in with another soldier, dragging his feet while he carries him on his shoulders.
“Good morning, sergeant.” You look up at him as you leave your paperwork on the makeshift desk. “What brings Johnson around now?”
Bucky scoffs, “He’s got a new sprain.”
You grumble. “Bring it over. Let me assess him.”
You are humming a song that you heard just a few months before the doctor who had trained you for months asked you to join the Army Nurse Corps.
“I’ll Never Smile Again?” Bucky asks as he leans on the desk. Nurse Williams looks at you, smiling.
“Yes, sir.” You mumble in response as you treat Johnson’s injury.
“Williams, could you bring some cold patches? You can find them in the infirmary depot.”
But before she can leave, Bucky yells, “Brown.” A man chimes in immediately. “Can you take this lady to the med depot?”
He nods, and both of them walk away. “My partner is very capable of going on her own.” You look at him.
“And our squad is highly trained on never leaving our nurses alone.”
You scoff and look at Johnson. “Johnson, this is the last time I patch you up today. If you come back again, I’ll report you for slacking.”
The blond opens his mouth, surprised.
As you are furrowing, creating pressure with a bandage on his foot, Bucky finally notices.
You two go way further back than he thought.
“You’re from Brooklyn Heights, right?” Bucky leans in and fixes his eyes on you. “We met in high school. You’re the Lieutenant’s daughter, aren’t ya?”
“In the flesh,” You mumble as you pat Johnson’s back. “You’re dismissed. Please be careful, and find Williams; ask her for that cold patch. When you finish your daily duties, elevate it and press it with that.”
Johnson turns to see Bucky, who tilts his head to leave you both alone. He rushes to the door and disappears immediately.
“And what’s the daughter of a Lieutenant doing as a nurse?”
“Dealing with cocky men.” You sigh as you look at him, already fed up.
He lifts his hands in feigned surrender. “I'll leave you alone, Miss Nurse.”
“Thank you so much, Sergeant Barnes.”
He finally leaves the tent you’re settled in, and Williams walks in.
“So, you and Barnes?” She looks at you, and you just roll your eyes at her.
“Just childhood neighbors.”
“He seems interested…” Mockingly, she adds.
“He seems interested in anyone wearing a skirt.”
“He’s not. Leiny has been trying to shoot her shot with him, and he doesn’t even bat an eye at her.”
“Because she’s being easy. They never like their girls like that.”
Williams scoffs and continues her folding duties.
The worst? That only leads to Bucky getting caught up on you. You now have all his attention, and he is ready to show you how persistent he can be.
When you finally finish your shift and you are ready to go to your quarters, where you share space with the rest of the nurses on duty, you don’t see the soldier who’s assigned to take you to your quad and bring the night nurse here.
You are waiting for him at a station when you hear his very easily recognizable voice on your back.
“Night, Miss Nurse.”
“Good Night, Sergeant.”
“Seems I’ll be the one taking you to your quads tonight.”
“How exciting.” You say as you start walking. He follows you a few steps behind.
“C’mon, sweetheart! I’m not that bad…” He pleads as he walks behind you. “Just a chance… get to know me.”
You sigh and look at him. In the light of the moon, he doesn’t seem so cocky. Somehow, he looks even sweeter. You can still notice those features you saw when you both lived in a base when your fathers shared a station.
“What’ya want, Barnes? We haven’t even talked in years… and the fact that we are sharing now… again… base, it’s just because our parents decided to stay in Brooklyn.”
“I promise I just… want to be friendly. Just that.”
You sigh and look at him. “Barnes… I have a boyfriend. He’s in a different division, so anything you try will be worthless. Do you still want to keep being friendly?”
He scoffs a laugh. “Just friends.”
He is being honest. Or at least, he is trying. His intention is not to fall for you—but every time he brings you one of his peers, or slides a chocolate into your hands when no one is looking, he falls a little bit more.
Or, every time he pats the spot next to him he saved just for you, and you roll your eyes just to go through and sit by his side. The way he notices you are slightly softer when you are patching him up, or the way you scold him because he was being reckless in the training and got injured.
For weeks, everyone teases him about how he is basically your guard dog when he is not following his Captain’s orders, or how every time the quarters are threatened, you are his first thought and how he can protect you from getting injured.
And you are not doing any better.
Every time you learn his convoy left for a mission, you get anxious. You don’t even fake anymore that you are still waiting for Josh’s letters.
And he notices, too.
In the first weeks, you used to run to the mailman, who gave you the letter—or not—of the week.
The last two weeks? You even forgot it was delivery day, and your girlfriends have brought you your letters.
He says nothing. He does not want to pressure you. But he loves the way that now your hands linger a little longer on his arm—the way you soothe his uniform after you patch him up.
One night, the girls from your infirmary station and you are sitting at a bonfire; it is one of those moments where your nurse in charge allows you to feel a kind of normalcy that war doesn’t exactly offer.
“So, Sergeant Barnes…” Nilda Williams finally says, and the other three nurses fix their eyes on you.
“What?” You roll your eyes.
“C’mon! We all have seen how you two interact.” Adeline adds. “And he’s so… soft with you.”
You grunt, “Girls… I’ve got someone waiting for me…”
“Someone who you haven’t responded to in weeks…” Nilda mumbles. “I’m just saying… You’re waiting for a man who you don’t even know if he’s coming back… and you got Barnes here…”
Your eyes snap open. “What are you implying? That I should… just be unfaithful to Josh?”
“It won’t be cheating if he… doesn’t know…” Lilian says softly, “And… let’s be honest… Do you think he is not over there… flirting with a cute nurse?”
“Well, I hope he’s not…” The three girls snort a laugh, and you furrow. “Do you really think he’s flirting with a nurse over there?”
“Sweetheart, he’s not even sure he’ll survive the next mission—he won’t be wasting time on someone who’s not there…”
“What the eyes don’t see… the heart doesn’t feel…”
And that thought sticks in your mind. You want to think Josh is a good man; you want to think he will never do something like that—but you have seen it with your own eyes. The three girls in front of you have fraternized with soldiers; they have relationships that will last as long as the tour lasts—in their own words.
After that night, you decide to throw a bone to him, just to see what can happen.
Bucky notices.
He notices how you start to laugh more at his jokes; the way you accept his invitations to eat next to him more than you did before.
One night, you are waiting for the man in charge to take you to your quarters when you see him coming with a grin on his face.
“I thought your night was yesterday.” You shout when he gets closer.
“I called in some favors.” He smugly says. He offers his arm to you, and for the first time, you hook your arm with his.
The night is cold, and you both know you are not supposed to fraternize, but after some hours, after some days, every boundary set by your higher-ups has been blurred into nothing. No one sees, no one speaks.
“How’s Josh?” Bucky asks, teasingly rather than interested.
“Fine, I guess… We haven’t written too much the last few weeks.”
Liar. You haven’t responded, and he stopped writing so often.
The light from the lamps starts to fade, and you are now at that spot where the only light that comes is from the moon. He looks down at you, and his blue eyes pierce through your soul. He can notice your cheeks are heated—the colors running through them—and for the first time he finally notices what you are doing.
“If it weren’t you, I’d think you were flirting with me.” He husks, placing a hand over your hand holding his arm.
You purr a laugh. “And what if I told you I was doing exactly that?”
He cocks an eyebrow and stops in his tracks—you feel it, you feel how his arm tenses on your hand, and before you can ask what is going on, you feel his arm getting loose on your grip and finding your hand to guide you into a darker place between two shelters used for the injured men who needed to rest.
He grips your waist, his hands crumpling your white uniform as your hands find his shirt, pulling him closer.
“And I’m sure that if you were flirting, I could do this with no problem.” He crowds over you and grazes his lips on yours.
“And what if I were flirting?” He scoffs, warm air stroking your lips, then he finally meets your lips and kisses you—first carefully, like someone tasting the waters.
His chest rising up and down, hands enticing your hips on his, as his mouth keeps mooching yours fiercely.
You are getting lost in the feeling of his hands traveling over your uniform as he gropes your hips. Lips devouring yours, trying not to grunt between kisses—knowing well he would have to surrender for any disciplinary actions just to cover both your asses.
When your mind finally cleared up, you pushed him slowly—not in a heated way, something more desperate, trying to make clear you were not offended, rather—wanting to be careful.
“Wait…” He mumbles, pulling you closer again. “I’m leaving tomorrow… and I won’t be back in a few days…”
He is staring at you carefully, pleading… and even in the moment, you know he is not even overreacting. Both of you know that every time he leaves for a patrol, it is almost uncertain if he will come back. So, you do it. You yank him by the collar of his shirt to a tent you know well is never used. Not because of anything in particular, but rather because the nurses call it ‘The Love Shelter’. A tent used for side quests and secret endeavors.
There, completely amused, he continues his task, his mouth finding your lips, and he sits on the cot; you feel like he is worshiping you in a way no one has done before. His hands fondle your thighs, and in a heated moment, he rips your stockings to grant himself better access. He pulls you down and sits you on his lap, leaning over the bed, finally unzips his uniform, and with extreme eagerness draws his cock from his briefs.
He looks up at you, trying to find approval to go on. You nod and eagerly kiss him. His calloused hands sink into you to pull you down on his cock. He pounds from below; his hips jostling to find a solace he has been deprived of.
Muffling every sound you make, you sink your teeth into his shoulder; he mewls a cry, gripping your back, bucking his hips as he fucks you like this is the last time he can enjoy—because maybe this is really the last time he can get to see you.
“If I come back…” He growls in your ear. “Gotta promise me I’ll have more of this.”
“When you come back…” You correct him. “I’m gonna give you all you want, Sergeant.”
He pinches his eyes closed as he drives you down once again; your hands anchor his shoulders as he jolts you on his cock—you find his lips to strangle a cry that is stuck in your throat. When you finally reach your peak, you bite the crook of his neck, whining and crying—you have been in the base for so long that you have forgotten how good it feels to have someone doing you.
“Does he do it like this?” The question brings you back to the harshness of his hands in your body, to the way your body squirms under his touch.
“No,” You cry out. “He doesn’t.”
He smiles at your response.
“Needa' cum.” He hoarsens in your ear as he pulls out; you can feel his thick cock twitching as it spurts thick warm ropes of cum.
He is panting in your ear; his hands hold you tight from your waist as he pulls you closer to his chest. “Thank you, thank you.”
You titter, “Why are you thanking me?”
He shakes his head. “‘Cause I’m glad you let me have this before I have to leave.”
“You’re ridiculous.” You roll your eyes and try to stand up.
“Where are you going?” He grips your waist.
“Barnes… Not sure if you have forgotten—but we are both on duty.” He grunts and helps you down. “At what time do you leave?”
“Early in the morning. I don’t think I’ll see you.” He admits with a hint of pain in his voice. You try not to bite your lip, and he smirks. “Can I have a goodbye kiss?”
You tip on your toes and kiss him for the last time. You finally try to fix the last drop of dignity you have left after literally pulling him into the tent and letting him have his way with you.
Two days go by, and you’re almost positive he is not coming back. You know it too well; you can feel it in the air. And the rest of the nurses try to comfort you—they all try to make you believe he is strong enough to endure whatever the enemy is putting him through.
And what are you supposed to do with all the pain in your chest? You are not even supposed to fraternize with them—let alone to develop something this way.
Three more days later, a convoy races through the place; all hands on deck are called in—you have faith—you really do.
And he comes out from one of the vehicles; he is all wound up, and you run to the litter. A soldier is rushing to carry him; you instruct them to take him to your tent—and when he finally focuses and sees you, he smiles through the pain.
You scowl at him and try to keep your attention on the summary of his injuries as your fellows run to help other soldiers.
By the time he is stabilized, you start to write down a record as he lies on the cot. He grunts in pain once the painkillers are wearing off.
“How bad am I?” He mumbles through the grunts.
“Unfortunately, enough to survive. Just some scratches, Sergeant.” You finally look up at him, and he is still facing up. “A penny for your thoughts?”
“Thought I’d never see you again.”
“Told you you were coming back, Barnes. You owe me things.” You snort a laugh.
And that was enough; you both knew you were not going anywhere without the other anymore. You both were tired of pretending to be nonchalant, and not even twelve hours later, he got you on top of him—he was grunting, and you were not sure if it was from the pain or the pleasure, but every time you tried to stop, he made you resume your movements.
“Sergeant… I’m gonna need to patch you up again if you keep doing this.” You mumble.
The noise outside muffles your voices enough.
Everyone outside is celebrating their comeback. You know well you are probably not the only nurse in this same scandalous situation; you know well, at least, Nilda is in this same position with a soldier in the tent next to yours. You saw them earlier sneaking into the tent just before you did the same with Bucky.
“It’s great that I got the prettiest nurse to patch me up as many times as needed.” His cock draws and slams into you, and that makes you roll your eyes. “Look at you, and you weren’t even open to look my way.”
“That’s because I’m taken—” your voice comes out broken—almost like a cry.
He scoffs the dirtiest laugh ever and slams again. “You don’t seem to be taken right now.”
You place your hands over his mouth, and he laughs again.
Time passes by, and boundaries and lines faded away weeks ago. No one really cares enough at this point, and Bucky is almost parading you all over the place—other soldiers are well aware that you are ‘his girl’, and no one ever messes with you anymore.
Then, the letter came by.
You are not even aware until your boss pulls you aside.
“Your father sent a letter.” She hands you the paper. “Josh is back home, and he wants to get you dismissed by the end of the week.”
Greenaway is a young veteran nurse—as you all call her—she knows the show, and knows well that you are having something with Bucky. Not that she cares; she did the same when she was young, but now, widowed and married again, she is not seeking a new man anymore.
“He wants me to get married…” Greenaway nods.
“I’ve seen this before, and he called on some favors; you are leaving next convoy tomorrow morning.” She sounds apologetic.
“Tomorrow morning?” You snap unintentionally at her.
“It’s the most time I could get you… I… called on some favors too…” Her voice is soft, like she is trying to make up for an inconvenience. “Barnes will be at dusk in the thing you all use as a private room.”
“Does he know?” Greenaway shakes her head.
“That’s on you, kid.”
“Thank you, Greenaway.” She smiles, his lips not even reaching her eyes.
“Nurse,” She says before you start to walk out, “Don’t rush yourselves—I took care of everything.” You smile back almost in the same way.
Later that night, you are sitting on the cot, scratching your fingers enough to pull some skin with a blood drop when he finally walks in.
“How much are you gonna owe Greenaway after this?” He starts to unbutton his uniform; he doesn’t even waste a minute before his chest is finally exposed in front of you. You smile and try to hide the tears you have been holding.
He finally towers over you and pulls up your uniform; his buttoned-down shirt exposes the dog tags that dangle from his chest, making you weak in the knees.
His finger finds the hem of your underwear and pulls it aside, then you remind yourself of Greenaway’s words. ‘Don’t rush yourselves…’
“Wait…” You softly interrupted.
“What?”
“Can you… Can we take all our clothes off?” He snaps his head in surprise, but nods immediately.
“Do we have the time for this?” You nod at him.
He kneels and carefully gets rid of his shirt—you sit and start to unbutton your dress; he starts to help you when his shirt is completely out of sight.
You look at him as if he were the most beautiful thing your eyes have landed on—because, to be fair, at the moment, he is. Your clothes lie on the floor as you finally notice him as a whole, and it is the first time you both get to see each other completely exposed, and you are loving every moment.
Your lungs are filled with musk and dust, a faint scent of his now worn-off soap and the sweat covering his body—it is not even a smell you particularly like, but when he is the one wearing it, it feels right to have your nose full of it. It feels like the only thing you would like to smell for the rest of your life, given the chance.
His hand falls on your hips, finally making you lower and sit on the cot once again. He towers over you, and you can feel every inch of skin gazing at yours—and you even let yourself think for at least a second about the life you could have had if it were a different situation.
When you finally come back to your senses, you notice one hand is holding you by the waist and his other hand is jerking his cock, his eyes are not even fixed on your most sensitive spot—they are fixed on your eyes, and even when he doesn’t want to admit it, he is growing fond of every moment near you. Every time your shoulder bumps into his in the kitchen area, or every time he runs to you to get patched, and every time he slides into you—he feels like heaven; he feels like every time he goes to patrol, it is worth it if he comes back to you.
He slams into you, his mouth muffles every moan in your lips, and his hands grip tight in your waist, like he wants to pull you closer and become one. His hands try to grasp at every part of you he can. Tracing paths on your arms, gripping your waist, even groping your breasts, even when you let out a giggle every time he does it.
And then, you realize.
It is literally the last time you will ever feel this in your life.
Not even because you are leaving, but because you are leaving to marry your actual boyfriend.
A tear starts to run down your cheek, and even before you try to hide it, you feel his hand soothing your cheek—his hips stop their pace until he is only looking at you.
“Don’t stop,” You cry out. “Please don’t.”
“You’re…” Shaking your head, you straddle his waist, pulling him deeper.
Nodding, he starts to pump yet again; his hand is still soothing every tear that is falling, as he kisses the crown of your head every time he thrusts.
When you feel that indistinctly twitching on his cock, you know he is about to come, you have learned each other’s body now, and he knows he has taught your body to follow his lead—the heat in your core starts to grow and travel to your lower stomach, and before you can even control your body, you straddle him—your legs creating a lock on his back, and he wants to resist. He knows he has to do it, but he can’t, and starts to pump you full. And you know it is wrong too; if this sticks, you are fucked, because now you’re not sure if you can go back home and let Josh touch you the way Bucky has been doing it for the past month.
He lets his body go stiff over you. Your legs are still locked in his back, and now you soothe him, stroking his back delicately. He chuckles softly and looks at you.
“If the Nazis don’t kill me, your father will if you get pregnant, you know that? What are you gonna say when they dismiss you, and you go back home all round with someone’s baby but not your boyfriend’s?”
And you start to break down; you know he is not doing it on purpose. He is teasing. But oh, if it hurts.
“No, goddamn. I'm an idiot, sweetheart. That’s not what I meant…” He rushes to soothe your tears.
“James…” You cry out, and he hurries to hug you.
“No, baby. You know I’ll respond to your father if something ever happens… I won’t let you be alone; I’m not that kind of man…”
“James… please listen to me…” You are finally able to form a sentence. He looks at you; his eyes are growing worried. “I’m leaving at dawn in the first convoy.”
“What do you mean?” He stops and holds you by your shoulders. “What are you even talking about?”
“My father called in some favors because Josh is back in town…”
Bucky sighs. He knows well what it means. He has seen it before. He blinks twice before he tugs you to his chest. “You’re gonna be the most beautiful bride in all of Brooklyn.”
You can’t see it, but Bucky is staring blankly as he kisses the crown of your head. He wants to tell you not to go, to dismiss your father and stay here with him. But at least in Brooklyn you will be safe and have a future.
“You’re a sweet coincidence, sweetheart. And I loved that I got the chance to have you at least for a while, but we both knew you weren’t mine.”
The night washes over you as Bucky explores your body once and twice; his calloused hands graze every inch of skin as he pecks your face, your neck, his tongue exploring your breasts, swirling his tongue in your nipples—he took every minute he had in his hands to let your body know his touch—the coat groaning with every movement Bucky inflicts in you. It burns your inside; it burns the way you know you will be touching another man’s body and thinking about him.
The morning comes with the first soldiers getting ready for their rounds—voices of Generals guiding, Nurses walking to change shifts, and you start to wake up. You notice Bucky is tangled around your legs, his hands holding you close.
You hear Nurse Greenaway ordering outside, “Next Convoy leaves in three hours.”
She announces to the nurse who is walking next to her, and you know it is your signal. You look up at Bucky, who is sleeping so peacefully that you feel bad for waking him up—he has probably not slept this well in a hell of a time.
“Bucky…” You mumble, tracing paths on his chest. “You need to get going.”
He mumbles something and pulls you closer, and you giggle.
“C’mon, Sergeant. I don’t think Greenaway can give us more than this.” He grunts and sets you free.
He finally sits on the edge of the cot. “I guess I’ll see you if I survive the Nazis… and you’ll be the most beautiful wife of another man.”
He stands up and starts to gather his own things when he’s finally ready. He looks at you and smiles for the last time.
“Bucky…”
“Take care, Sunshine.”
And your heart pangs in your chest. You know this is how it is supposed to end—there is no way to have a happy ending on this one.
When you finally get home, your father is waiting for you in the station. He is talking about things you are not paying much attention to. He is probably explaining how excited you should feel about being back home and getting ready to finally marry Josh. How Miss DeLauren, the most famous seamstress in town, is already ready to start with the fitting appointments—and you just nod and smile at his words. Just the bare minimum for him not to notice you are not even understanding half his words.
Your house looks exactly the same—and your mother looks eagerly happy to have you there. She has always been fond of Josh, and it was her dream to see you married to him.
“And Josh?” You finally ask when you notice not even a trace is seen.
“Oh, poor soul had to run some errands with his father out of town, but they will be back soon. Don’t worry; in the meantime, we will be preparing things so when he comes back you will be ready.”
It is at that moment when you try to remember why you are with him—you try to remember to yourself that he is a good man—that he was probably not the man everyone was describing at the base—a man who fucked another nurse just as you were fucked by Bucky.
Your father does not even ask how your months at the base were. He was not even happy you had gone—even when all your neighborhood was proud that you had served your country in a way. He kept insisting that it could be dangerous.
You knew it was not that.
You knew he never wanted you to expose yourself in such a way, but he also knew you were so stubborn and you were never going to follow his words to that extent.
Almost two weeks go by; Josh is still out of town with his father—it is just that you understand your father knew he was not going to be back as soon as you were told, but he wanted to be sure you were his to really welcome him. Your first real steps as a wife.
Evenings are spent searching for the best things for your wedding, and that morning is no different; you are walking at Sunset Park with your mother. She is trying to find the best flower shop to arrange your bridal bouquet as well as the decorations—and as she is talking to an owner, you start to wander around the place. You know it well; you can even see the terminal surrounding the edges.
But something makes your blood run cold.
You see Winnifred, Bucky’s mother, walking with Becca—hurrying Becca, better said, towards the terminal, and your heart fluttered in your chest.
You walked behind them—not enough to be noticed, but enough to see the platform from afar. You have been walking for what seems like an eternity, and you stand on a corner where the whole place is on display.
Some soldiers are being welcomed—dozens of them—families being reunited, wives waiting for their husbands, children waiting for their father, and then you see Becca running towards a man.
Bucky holds her in the air. His face falls on her shoulder as her mother weeps in front of them, and you stay still. Not even a muscle falters at his sight; you know you can't do it; you can’t have the benefit of running towards him and clinging to his neck.
When he finally puts Becca down and is about to hug his mother, he sees you from afar. His face softens for a split second before he hugs his mother tight—and you look away. You turn around and walk quickly to your mother, who is still talking with the lady about the floral arrangements.
The thought lingers in your mind, and you turn around, and you can barely see the platform.
“Oh, look at it. It seems some soldiers made it back.” Ophelia, the owner, softens as soon as she notices the cars going back, with some soldiers in the windows cheering up.
“God bless their souls.” Your mother answers, and you nod in response.
You finally see him; he is walking with Winnie and Becca on each side, smug as he is, proud as he should.
“Look at it, your boy's back.” Your mother cheers at Winnie, who hugs Bucky tighter.
“Healthy and handsome,” Winnie smiles and nudges him to greet you.
“Morning, ladies.” Bucky takes a step and leans; you three do the same.
“Glad to see you back, Sergeant.” You try to keep your stern face.
“You were the main reason for it to happen,” He says, and you try not to gasp. “She was the best nurse in charge in my troop, ma’. You gotta see her in action.”
And you get every word; you understand this is only a dagger disguised in colleague praising.
“You shared base with him?” Your mother looks at you, and you feel the color rocketing on your face.
“Yes… Yes.” You stutter, “We shared base.”
“Look at it. What’s life? How many times your fathers didn’t share base, and now you two did.” Winnie says with a nostalgic hint.
You smile at your mother but notice Bucky has not taken his eyes off you, and you hate it. You hate how affected you are by his staring eyes.
“Well, now we both have to celebrate!” Winnie adds, “Your beautiful daughter is getting married, and my handsome son is back home and not going anywhere ever again.”
“Ma’” Bucky scolds, and she just pats his shoulder.
“Lots to celebrate! And I really hope to see you three at the wedding.” Your chest, as well as Bucky’s, rise and falls at the mention.
“We will be honored to be there.” Bucky looks down at you as he answers your mother.
And when the farewells are finally starting, you see Bucky walking with Becca in his arms, and a faint sound comes from his mouth, “I’ll never smile again… until I smile at you…”
“I thought you hated that song.” Becca looks up at him as he turns slightly back to see you.
“Let’s say it’s an acquired taste.”
And you are left there, a heavy feeling on your shoulders as Bucky walks away with his family in his arms, while your mother resumes her conversation about your upcoming wedding.
Your friends finally take you to celebrate your engagement.
What engagement? You were never asked. Everyone just decided, and you were too cowardly to comment on it.
You are sitting in a soda shop with two of your closest friends. They are all talking about different things as you try to keep up with all the conversations.
“Wait, we’ve been here for hours and she,” Kate points at you, “hasn’t told us anything about her overseas…”
You chuckle and shake your head. “Nothing interesting, just patching up wounded soldiers, bad sleeping, worse uniform. What can I tell you?”
“Oh, c’mon!” Sara chimes in. “My cousin served as a nurse too, and she told me every nurse there slept with one soldier…”
You feel your cheeks getting heated. “You all know me well; that’s not my type of thing. Besides, I knew I was going back home to get married to Josh.”
“Oh, you really think he did not do it?” You feel a knot in your throat.
“I like to think that.” You furrow your eyebrows at them. “Do you all think he’s capable of being with another woman?”
“Well, he’s been there for months, even before your departure; it is almost obvious he couldn’t… be… unattended?”
You scrunch your nose. “So, you’re saying I should have… been unfaithful to him to be even?”
“We all know you could never, don’t you worry. It was just a thought.”
If it were not enough, you see Bucky walking into the restaurant, and then you cuss at the fact that the neighborhood is the size of an apple.
You look down and sip on your Coke, trying to go unnoticed—just as Sara squeezes your hand, she mumbles your name and looks at you.
“Did you really share base with him?” You sigh and nod.
“We barely talked there. We were both too busy.” And suddenly, the reminder of his hips rolling above you made you shiver.
“Well, if I’d had him on my base, I wouldn’t be exactly loyal, mhh…”
You roll your eyes, and when they get distracted, you notice he is staring intently at you. He tilts his head towards the back door, and before you can even register what it means, he disappears through it. You don’t understand why you are doing it, but you excuse yourself to the bathroom and walk like a moth to a flame.
He is waiting for you in a hallway leading to the back door where the dumpsters are. Rapidly, he pushes you against the dark door and kisses you hungrily. His tongue swirls on yours, as his hands grope your hip. Your hands find his neck immediately, squishing your digits on it.
“How’s the mister doing?” He mumbles in your ear, and you pant the warm air from his mouth. “Oh, I heard. He hasn’t even set foot in your house yet.”
“Bucky…” You mumble, tilting your head back. He chuckles and carefully slips his hand from your hip to the inside of your skirt—finding the hem of your underwear.
“It’s easier when you’re not using a goddamn tight uniform.” He coos in your ear and teasingly goes down until he finds your wet spot. His middle finger goes deeper and finds your clit. You gasp and bite his shoulder to muffle your moan.
“Don’t…” You try to stop him, and try is the most fitting word you can think of, because you don’t really want him to stop.
“Are you sure you want me to stop?” His finger pauses its movements as he tilts your head with a finger in your chin.
Pure lust is shown in his eyes, and you are sure you can cry from the withdrawal of pleasure. You shook your head, and he kissed the tip of your nose, resuming his ministrations. Not enough time later, you come undone immediately; he takes his hand out of your skirt and licks the wetness left on it as he looks directly at you.
He waits for you to recover, and before you can even ask anything, he disappears and goes back to the tables. You quickly go to the bathroom, trying to recompose yourself. Your cheeks are heating, your mouth is now slightly swollen, and you are sure that if someone sees under Bucky’s shirt, they will find a reddened spot about to go purple.
You go back to your table, and the girls barely notice you were out for longer than a bathroom visit should take.
Later that night, when the girls were satisfied with the stories you gave them about the base, you go on your way back home, and you see a car you don’t recognize. When you finally walk in, you see him sitting on your couch; your father is sharing a whiskey with him and his father, and you try to fake the biggest smile your lips let you.
He stands up and opens his arms; you walk fast toward him and hug him—and even there, you can feel Bucky’s scent filling your nose; you can still feel his finger rubbing your clit.
“How’s the bravest nurse in the county?” You smile at him, but something feels different.
You both started so young; he did not even propose, and when he enlisted, he assumed you were just going to wait for him and get married as soon as he came back. And at first you were fine with the idea. What else could you do? It was every girl in town's plan, and he was a daydream for many girls.
But looking at him did not feel fine. He was someone else now, or maybe you were someone else.
The rest of the night you stay by his side, his calloused hand holding tight to yours, squeezing it once in a while—and it’s the fact that you have never felt half the things Bucky made you feel; it’s the fact that you now think if he ever made a nurse in his base feel the way you feel now about Bucky.
They talk about the wedding, the house he has already bought out of town—and then you realize he wants you two out of town, and the idea of not seeing Bucky ever again seems realistic so suddenly.
After that, the wedding preparations become serious. You start to go with Mrs. DeLauren, and the first time you stand up in front of her, she looks so wise. Incredibly, there is not even one wrinkle on her face, even at her age.
You know her story vaguely. She was widowed some years ago, and her husband, Mr. Thomas DeLauren, helped her to found this whole business—she always loved to create, and she loved seeing her future brides excited to have their bridal dresses by her.
“Look at you; it’s gonna be easy on you. You got a perfect body, sweetheart.” She smiles and starts to measure parts of your body. “Who are you marrying?”
“Josh Foyer.” You mumble, looking at the window behind her.
“Oh, good boy. Great parents. You got one of the good ones.”
And you feel a pang in your chest. In fact, every time you are there, you feel hollow in your chest, not only because this woman is pouring her heart into creating the perfect dress for your wedding, like with thousands of women who have married in real love, but because you still see Bucky in alleyways—every time you are on a date with your friends at Pop’s, or every time you are lurking around at the park and he finds you there and takes you to dark places to remind you of everything you are losing by marrying Josh.
And now, this woman who has dedicated her life to this is wasting her sweet time on you—a girl who lets a man who is not her fiancé wander on her body in hidden places.
But rumours spread fast, and Bucky learns you spend your evening there, fitting your dress, getting all dolled up for a man that Bucky does not think deserves you.
The piece of silk of your petticoat that falls to your ankle looks so expensive—and you know you don’t even have to worry about it, but it looks like a waste of fabric to you.
You look down at her and smile. “Take the time you need, Mrs. DeLauren.”
“Stop it with that; call me Dana. Mrs. DeLauren was my mother-in-law, and that woman was a bitch.”
Trying to hide a laugh, you cough, and she shakes her head. “No hiding here. She knows well how much we hated each other; that’s why she doesn’t haunt me.” She stands up and irons her dress. “Take five, sweetie. If you need to, you can take the dress off and take a walk to get some air.”
“Thank you, Dana.”
You sit on the small store window where a mannequin stands, and when you look away, you see him. Standing on a corner, cocky smile, eyes fixed on the store, and you know he is waiting for you.
You are now the one who tilts your head, guiding him to the alleyways you noticed in previous days. You run to the door and find him already there; he takes you by your waist and lifts you to straddle him. He corners you and starts attacking your neck.
“You look so goddamn beautiful.”
“Me and how many more?” You pant, and he chuckles.
“I’m not the one getting married to someone else, sweetheart.”
He says before pinning you to the brick wall and unzipping his jeans.
“James… We can’t…” You try to stop him.
“It’s gonna be fast, I promise. I just… I miss you…”
You feel his tip grazing your entrance even when your cunt is fully clothed. You nod, closing your eyes. Let hell go loose; if you are already going to hell, you should as well enjoy the way.
He hooks a finger and slides aside your underwear, finally sliding in. He thrusts and rolls his hips, and you can cry some moans into his shoulder, digging your nails into his back—the last time you had something was him back in the base—the twitching of his dick takes you out of your thoughts, and he is about to pull out when you stop him immediately.
“If you stain this dress, she’s gonna know.” He chuckles and kisses you again.
“You just want me to make it stick.” He grunts and pumps harder to fill you in. “You're more worried ‘bout the damn dress than your future husband.”
You motion your head; you are not even sure if it is a nod or a shake, and he fills your ear with a laugh.
“You're so lost on me that you're not even making sense.”
He rolls his hip once again and reaches your most sensitive spot, making you come undone, crying out. He lets you cool down and puts you down, helping you wipe away any trace of dust from your gown.
“Look at you, sweetheart. You look so beautiful.” He checks you up and down. “That bastard is a lucky one.”
“Bucky… We can’t keep doing this… I’m getting married… You should be out there looking for a woman who loves, and I know you can find plenty of them.”
You cup his cheek, and he leans into your touch, closing his eyes.
“I need to get back there, Bucky.”
“When’s your night appointment?” He says, gripping your wrist before you can even walk away.
“I’m not telling you.”
“Then I’ll be here every day ‘till I see you.” He coos, and you know it’s not a fake threat.
“Next Friday night is my last fitting.”
“See you here.”
You roll your eyes, and before you can even think, you sit again on the store window under the mannequin. Some minutes later, Dana comes back. “I’m sorry for taking so long; I got lost finding some things.”
You smile and shake your head—you hurry to stand up on the platform as Dana starts to check on the fabric—and you don’t notice, but she furrows her brow at a reddish-orange stain in the back of your gown; she laughs in a low voice.
After some minutes, she is done with today’s fixing and lets you leave.
The week goes by without further ado, and you just can’t find more excuses to go out when your wedding is barely some weeks away, and you should not be showing off yourself that much in the city with your single friends.
The date fades like nothing; he does not even mention the wedding until you do. He just drops that some of the remaining men in his troop who came back alive are attending, and that is just that. You then realize he is as interested in the wedding as you are.
When he is driving back home, you finally notice something—an undergarment, and you really try not to make a fuss out of it; you just stare at it while you remember Greenaway’s stories.
“Oh, we were bolder than you all think,” She would say. “We used to give them something to take home when they or us were dismissed; it could be underwear—anything would work.”
And you really try to be annoyed, but you are not.
You are somehow relieved.
You don’t feel bad anymore; the problem now is what kind of marriage you are going into.
You can’t talk with your mother. She is devoted to your father—and you don’t want to know how your parents ruled their relationship.
After spending most of the day with him, he drops you off at DeLauren’s shop, but before you can even walk in, you notice Bucky leaning on the wall near the alleyway. You look around, and no one is to be seen.
“You can keep doing this; we will be caught up.”
“I know, but I wanted to catch a glimpse of the beautiful bride.”
“You will see me at the event.” You roll your eyes.
“Quite not the same…” You roll your eyes.
“Oh, why not?”
“I’m not the groom. I should get to see you with it before the wedding.” His eyes meet yours, and you feel the heat in your core.
“Need to get going, but I’ll see if I can escape for a minute.”
“I’ll be waiting all evening if it’s needed.”
Dana is finishing up the details, and she walks you to the mirror that is next to the window—you look at yourself, and you can’t deny how beautiful you look. The dress fits and hugs you in an excellent way. You wish it were the dress you used for the wedding of your dreams.
When you look up, Bucky is now leaning against a wall on the other side of the street. He catches a glimpse of you, and you can even hear the whistle of his. That whistle he always did when he saw you in your uniform, just before telling you how beautiful you looked in it.
You want to stop yourself, but you smile at him.
“You two need to be more careful,” Dana says from below, and your breath hitches.
“Sorry?”
She scoffs and sits on the floor.
“I might look old, but I was young once and, unfortunately, not in a very different context than you are right now.” She leaves her tools to her side.
“You did not know Mr DeLauren, but he was a gentleman. You don’t see much of them nowadays.” Silence reigns in the shop. You lift your skirt and sit on the platform in front of her. “Unfortunately, I just learned to appreciate him, never to love him.”
And you look at her, agape. “Mrs. DeLauren!”
“Oh, don’t ‘Mrs. DeLauren’ me! I had to wash and dry your gown from the brick stain at your last appointment. You, lady, have no place to judge.”
And heat rises to your cheeks.
“I get it, okay? We need to accomplish our parents’ standards—but you don’t have to marry that poor Josh just because you have been together for years.”
“And then why did you marry Mr. DeLauren?”
“He asked me to. Thomas was a great man, and our parents worked together—they thought it was the greatest idea. I was seeing Roberts in secret—and I got pregnant.”
“By Thomas?” You ask, tilting your head, and she shakes her head.
“Thomas took him as his child as soon as he learned. We got married as soon as it started showing off.”
“Why didn’t you marry Robert?”
“Robert was just a soldier; it was not as well seen as it is right now. And he was someone without a name. Mr. DeLauren was not, and you can not compete with that.”
“Thomas always knew Charles was not his. He never cared.”
“And what happened to Robert?”
“He got married, passed away some years later, leaving his widow alone with one child; she remarried a few years later.”
“Did you get to see him after you got married?” Your voice is a thread; you can cry any minute.
“A few times, but then he got married, and even if Thomas was mildly aware of my affairs, Robert’s wife was not part of the deal. But I think she got married the same way I got married—because she had to.” She looks at the way you are almost crying. “We don’t always get our happy ending.”
Both of you smile with resignation.
“I know men nowadays are not the… most faithful, but… Can I ask something?” She nods and looks at you.
“If a man keeps something that belongs to a mistress…”
“That’s not a mistress anymore; that’s the woman who has his heart.” She admits, and you swallow.
“But why are you giving away things when you are still seeing each other?” She chuckles at the irony. “Or was it back in the base?”
“Not really. I never thought of giving him something.”
“Then why…” Realization comes to her. “Oh… I should say sorry, but neither of you are completely committed. Welcome to marriage, I guess.”
You sigh and look at him, who’s staring back at you—those longing eyes pleading for something he is sure he will never get.
“I need to pick up some things some stores away to finish the last details.” She says as she stands up, and you look at her, confused. “Don’t know what you're doing, but your cups keep getting bigger, and I need to fix them before the big day.”
“Oh… not sure.” You furrow, and she laughs.
She looks at the window and sees him waiting. “Thirty minutes, and if any of you dare to ruin my dress, you will walk the aisle with a ruined dress.”
Your mouth falls to the floor once again, and Dana says nothing before closing the shop’s main entrance.
You look at him from afar, and he looks as confused as you, but you hurry him up to the back door. There, you pull him by his jacket and take him to a linen room. Before you can close the door, he stops on his tracks and looks at you.
You think you are about to see teary eyes, but what you find is pure lust—pure hotness pooling all over his eyes.
He pushes you inside and lifts your dress, making you take every piece of fabric between your hands as he drops to the floor.
“What are you doing?” You ask in a rush.
“Something I’ve been dreaming of since the first day I kissed you.” He hooks up a leg on his shoulder as he slides aside your underwear; before you can even comprehend, he is already tracing a line on your slit with his tongue. You gasp loudly as you grip the fabric of your dress.
His tongue is working its way between your folds, while his hand traces paths on your thigh, while you try not to make any sound that will tell on you. His tongue is relentless, savouring and drinking every taste he can gather from your arousal—you have never felt this way before. Josh was a classic man. He would never even think about doing this, and now Bucky is claiming every one of your memories as his.
You know that after this, he is the only thing you will be able to have in your mind, and then you start to feel the orgasm rocketing from your core to your stomach—you shiver at the feeling and arch your back as you start to let yourself go.
He drops to his thighs and looks at you from below.
His chin is completely damp, glistening with your arousal, and when you think he is done, he stands up and turns you around, pinning you on the wardrobe, your hand grips the furtniture as you look to your side, his face is fixed on the way your ass is exposed with your lifted dress, and he strokes the curve of your ass before finally pulling down your underwear. He bends you over and exposes your breasts over the dress, spilling them out as he pinches one of your nipples, and you cry out one more time—the feeling is almost too much.
“You were not that sensitive back in the base.”
You try to shake your head, but your mind is getting foggy. When you finally feel his tip kissing your entrance, you gasp and look at him.
“Did you really think I would let him be the one to fuck you in your wedding dress?” He mumbles in your ear, but you are far gone to even form a coherent sentence, and without previous warning, he just thrusts and slides in.
His now well-known movements over you feel perfect, like your body has accepted that he is the only one who can make you feel like this.
“I swear to God you put a spell on me, because every time I take you I feel like your body feels better and better, and these here,” he gropes your breasts, “feel even bigger in my hands.”
He pumps again and, with trembling legs, spills inside his warm cum. You rest your body in the wardrobe, and he starts to kiss your hair, your neck, your shoulders, and at last your temple.
“Look at you, your dress smells like me, and you are marrying someone else.” He says as he turns you around again and lifts your dress, trying to soothe it.
“I think he cheated on me in his base,” You titter, and he scoffs, tugging a strand of hair in the back of your ear.
“Well, at least you are even now.” You shake your head. “I think he fell in love with her too.”
“Why would you think that?”
“He keeps her underwear and brings it everywhere. I saw it in his car just earlier.”
“Poor evil.” He tousles his hair back. “Then what? Are you calling off the wedding?”
“For what? Underwear? There’s no way my father will accept it.”
He purses his lips and nods.
“I guess I won’t see you until the wedding then.” He cradles your face and looks at you.
“You are gonna be there?”
“Just in case the bride needs a getaway ride.”
“That wouldn’t be fair…”
“You know what they say…”
You scoff and help him get out of the linen room.
He walks towards the back door and looks at you once again. “I’m keeping my word, even at the last minute. There will be a car waiting for you that day. I mean it.”
The big day comes by, and your mother is so busy with so many things that she sends you alone to Mrs. DeLauren. When you arrive, you see the wedding dress on the mannequin and the rest of the setup next to it.
“I was so sure you were going to chicken out.” Dana appears from the hallway, but her gaze shifts immediately. “There’s no way…”
“What?” You turn around and look to your sides.
She walks quickly towards you and fixes her gaze directly on your breasts, then she looks around and points at your belly.
“You didn’t protect yourself?!” She shouts, and you jump on the spot. “I thought you were more intelligent than this, for Lord’s sake.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“You’re pregnant! I can see it! Shit, I can smell it!” She hurries with the measuring tape to check your hips and waist and shakes in disbelief.
And then, every time you and Bucky were reckless enough not to give a shit come to your mind. She storms off immediately, and you can hear her walking upstairs and yelling now on the second floor.
You hear some commotion and then two pairs of steps coming downstairs, and then you see him.
Uniform spotless, hair mussed back, his eyes are now wide open, and his face is pale.
“I try to do one thing for you two, kids. And how do you pay me? Getting knocked up!” She grunts.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to say goodbye to you. I wanted to see you one more time before you were Mrs. Foyer. Mrs. DeLauren saw me wandering and gave me a chance to see you here.”
“I’ll give you a minute.” Dana pats his back and gives you a look.
It’s not a scowl; she is not even mad. You can see it. She wants to tell you more than her years of experience can say, but she needs to remain professional. She is hired to help brides look beautiful the day they get married, not to run away with a soldier. But you know her eyes are pleading; you know she means to ask you to do what she did not have the guts to do decades ago.
You nod, and she walks away.
“Bucky…” You finally look at him.
“Let’s go away. I can’t promise you much, but I got some dimes under my name, and we can go as far as possible. I’ll give you everything. I’m gonna work twice as hard; this is not even about the baby. I asked her to help me because I can’t let you get married to someone who doesn’t love you, and you don’t love either.”
You start to tear up, and he kneels in front of you.
“I’m asking you to start something together. Far from here. And I know your parents will hate you and my mother will be worried as hell, but we will write them a letter when everything cools down. And if they never forgive us, we've got each other…” He is begging, and his hands grip your hips.
You don’t stop to think and just nod. Looking at him. He stands up and towers over you, hugging you, holding you tightly as you keep tearing up.
“I love you, and I don’t care what things come our way; we will face them together.”
He grips your hand, and before he can pull you out to start running towards the car, you stop him.
“Need to do something before we flee.” You run towards the stairs, but before you get to them, you see Dana standing up in front of them. You hug her, and she hugs you back.
Words not said are understood, and you look up at her.
“I demand a happy ending.” Both of you chuckle, and she nods.
“You have every right to have your happy ending.”
“I’m sorry you got to do such a beautiful dress, and it will go to waste…” You try to sound serious, but you laugh.
“That thing? Will be sold by the end of the week. I’m sorry you will be a runaway bride.”
“I think happy endings come in different forms.”
She nods. “Please, leave. I will have to say you never even came to the store, and if you are seen here, it will be difficult to lie.”
You nod and run to Bucky, who is already looking around to be sure no one is near. You both hop into the car.
You look back and see Dana looking at you, and she is crying—even when she does not want to admit it, you know she wishes it had been different.
Bucky holds your hand and kisses the back of it when you finally pay attention to the radio in the background.
“I’m so in love with you… I’ll never thrill again to somebody new…” Frank Sinatra sings to you, as if the world is trying to tell you that it could not have been different for you.
When I tell you both my thighs and eyes were tearing up while I was reading this! I might be biased but I loved this so so much, got me out of my reader's block, I love my girls brain and I definitely love 40's Bucky!
summary: steve is obsessed with the sound of your jewellery
word count: 800
warnings: pure fluff, steve is head over heels for reader
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
The first time he hears it, he’s in the back of Family Video, restocking the shelves. The chime of the front door as a new customer steps in seems to echo across the room, but he brushes it off as a boredom-induced hallucination. Except, as he goes back to work, he keeps hearing it. It’s light and airy, like wind chimes that tinkle from a distance. His heart drops a little, wondering if that ringing in his ears is coming back again. And little by little, the sound gets closer.
“Excuse me?” He jumps at the voice, turning around to see you. And suddenly it clicks.
Your arms are lined with bangles of every color and size — some big, some small, some shiny and some with gemstones. “That sound was you?” He blurts out, relieved that it’s not his mind playing tricks again, but also forgetting he’s meant to be serving a customer.
Your face breaks out into an awkward smile. “Uh...”
“Sorry, that came off ruder than I meant it to.” He blubbers, a little shy and no idea why. “I…I think I like it.”
You chuckle again. “Um, thank you?”
“Sorry.” He repeats, feeling the blush creep up his neck. The cramped aisle doesn’t leave too much space between you, and he’s noticing your pretty eyes, and the curve of your nose and-
“I was wondering if you were hiring by any chance?”
Steve pounces on the opportunity shamelessly. “Yes! Absolutely we are!” Keith’s going to kick his ass for that, but he can deal with it later. Especially when he sees a genuine smile break out on your face.
“Awesome, well…” You turn to your bag, digging through it to fish out what he assumes to be your resume. The entire time, he hears the jingle of your bangles hitting against one another especially when you excitedly pull it out and hand it over to him. The light brush of your fingers as the paper exchanges hands makes his blush grow tenfold. “Hopefully I’ll see you around…” You glance at his badge. “Steve.” And as you turn on your heel and exit the store, Steve isn’t sure what sounds better — your jewellery or his name coming out of your mouth.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
The answer is that it’s the sound of your jewellery.
That’s what he determines once you start working at Family Video. When the doors open at the start of an egregiously early morning shift, and you wave at him with the most heavenly sound in the world, he thinks he can deal with the next few hours. No matter what he’s doing, or where in the store he is, he can hear the airy chimes of your hands as you float around the store, serving customers at the counter, laughing at Steve’s jokes in the break room .
He starts noticing — the ones you wear everyday (which you tell him are your grandmother’s) and how you always match the others to your outfits. He loves how such a small thing lets yourself be loud and unapologetically you.
Especially, when you’re angry. Maybe that’s an awful thing to say, but when you’re angry, that’s when you talk with your hands. He watches the flurry of colors flying this way and that as you rant about how Keith’s got you on a new schedule that you hate. He’s like a cat with a lazer pointer, following the dancing light. That ringing sound used to be his worst nightmare. But you, singlehandedly made it his dream.
“Steve.” You snap your fingers in front of his face. “Are you even listening to me?” You laugh.
“Hm?” He blinks himself out of his trance. “Yeah, totally.”
Your eyes drop away from his when you whisper. “I thought you’d be more upset.”
“Upset?” He furrows his brows.
“We’re barely going to have shifts together anymore.”
Steve’s heart sinks at the thought.
But maybe, there’s a solution. Something he’s been putting off for far too long. “You think I only wanna see you at work?" He shakes his head. "We can hang out. Say...this Friday? Dinner?” He bites his tongue.
You straighten, a smile growing on your face. “Yeah, that’d be amazing.”
And now, even if he doesn’t hear those bangles around the store, the beautiful sound fills his house. His heart still when he hears it, knowing his girl is there.
Because soon enough, that’s exactly what you become. Well, he calls you his girl, but if he’s honest, he belongs to you — completely and totally.
When he hears that familiar jingle, he’s basically running to it like the world is going to end. It never does. You just greet him, with a sweet smile and soft peck to his lips. And then he slips his hand in yours, and the twinkling sound becomes both of yours. His own little slice of heaven.
Summary: After a late party, you request Kurt for a ride again on purpose. What starts as nervous conversation in his car turns into heated dry humping in a quiet lot.
The party last week had been a wash, too loud, too many people talking over each other, the kind of night that left you restless instead of satisfied. You’d walked out early, still thinking about the way Kurt’s hands had trembled when he touched you, the broken little sounds he’d made against your skin, the completely unfiltered way he’d looked at you like you were the first real thing that had happened to him in months.
You kept the ride receipt. You kept the username.
KurtsWorld96.
A week later you were out later than you meant to be, the last train already gone, and the idea of getting into a stranger’s car felt worse than it used to. So you opened the app, filtered for the one driver you’d already met, and requested him before you could talk yourself out of it.
He accepted in under thirty seconds.
When the beat-up sedan pulled up, Kurt was already half out of the car, trying (and failing) to look casual. The second he saw you he froze, then forced a smile that was way too big.
“Hey—hi. You’re… you’re actually here.” He rubbed the back of his neck, ears going pink immediately. “I mean, of course you’re here, you requested the ride, but—yeah. Hi.”
You slid into the passenger seat. The cameras were off this time. You noticed. He noticed you noticing.
“I unplugged them,” he said quickly, almost defensive. “After last time. Felt weird leaving them on. Like… I don’t know. Didn’t want to risk anything. Or make you think I was trying to get content out of it. Which I wasn’t. I swear.”
You buckled in. “I know.”
He let out a breath that sounded like relief and pulled into traffic. For a few blocks neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, just charged. Kurt kept glancing over like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
“So,” he started, voice a little too high, “uh… how was the party last week? After you left. I kept thinking about it. Like, did you have a good time? Or was it one of those nights where you show up and immediately want to leave?”
You told him the truth. The party had been fine until it wasn’t. Too many people performing for each other. You’d spent most of it thinking about the car ride instead.
Kurt’s hands tightened on the wheel.
“Oh.” A small, stunned laugh. “That’s… okay. Cool. I mean—not cool that the party sucked, but… yeah.” He risked another look at you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot. I kept replaying the whole thing and then I’d get all… distracted… and then I’d feel guilty for getting distracted, and then I’d just do it again. It’s been a whole cycle.”
You asked him if he’d told anyone.
“God, no.” He shook his head hard. “Who would I even tell? My chat would lose their minds in the worst way, and my parents still think I just drive people around for gas money. Besides… it felt private. Like it was just ours. I didn’t want to turn it into another story.”
The honesty landed heavier than the usual streamer monologue. You watched him for a second, twenty-three, living in the weird space between trying to become someone and still being painfully, earnestly himself.
“I requested you on purpose,” you said.
Kurt almost missed a light. “You did?”
“Yeah. I could’ve taken anyone. I wanted you.”
He went quiet for a long stretch of road. When he finally spoke again his voice was softer.
“That’s… really nice of you to say. Most people don’t even remember my name. They just want to get where they’re going and forget I exist. But you keep… seeing me. It’s a lot. In a good way. I think.”
You asked where he was headed after this shift.
“Nowhere special. Back to my mom’s place. Crash. Maybe edit some old footage if I can’t sleep. Which is most nights lately.” He gave a self-deprecating little shrug. “Glamorous life of the almost-influencer. What about you? Home? Or… somewhere else?”
You told him you weren’t in a rush to go home yet.
Kurt swallowed. The tips of his ears went fully red.
“Okay. Um. There’s a place I sometimes park when I need to clear my head. Quiet. No cameras. No streetlights really. If you… if you wanted to just talk for a bit longer. Or whatever. No pressure. I can just take you straight home if that’s better.”
You told him the quiet place sounded good.
He drove there with both hands on the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Ten minutes later the car was tucked under a row of trees behind a closed auto shop, engine off, only the soft dashboard glow left between you.
Kurt turned in his seat to face you properly. For once he didn’t fill the silence with a joke.
“I’ve never done anything like last week before,” he said. “Not even close. I keep waiting for you to change your mind and realize I’m just some weird guy with too many cameras and not enough game. But you came back. So… I’m trying not to screw it up by talking too much. Which is hard, because talking is kind of my whole thing.”
You reached over and rested your hand on his knee.
He looked down at it like it might disappear.
“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly. “Why me? Seriously. You could’ve had anyone react like that. Why the rideshare guy who’s still figuring out how to talk to people?”
You told him the truth: because his reactions were honest. Because under all the try-hard energy there was someone who just wanted to be chosen for a minute.
Kurt stared at you for a long second. Then he let out a shaky breath and laughed once, soft and disbelieving.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured. “You know that, right?”
You unbuckled and climbed across the console before he could second-guess himself, settling into his lap. The sudden weight of you made him jolt, hands flying to your waist on instinct. His thighs were warm and tense beneath you; you could already feel the thick, insistent heat of his cock trapped against the seam of his jeans, twitching the moment your weight settled fully.
“Is this okay?” you asked.
“Yes. God. Yes. More than okay.” His voice cracked. “I’ve thought about this exact thing every night since last week. Just… you here. Like this.”
You rolled your hips once, deliberately, grinding the soft heat between your legs against the already-hard line of his cock through both layers of clothes. The friction was immediate, rough denim dragging against the thin fabric of your panties, the heat of him searing through like a brand. You felt the exact shape of the head, already damp, catch and slide.
Kurt’s brain short-circuited all over again.
A broken sound punched out of his throat. His fingers dug into your sides hard enough that you could feel the slight tremor in them. The air in the car suddenly felt thicker, warmer, filled with the faint scent of his cologne mixed with clean sweat and the unmistakable edge of arousal.
“Holy shit—you’re so warm. Even through everything. Never felt it before”, he whispered, eyes huge.
You did it again, slower this time, dragging yourself along the full length of him. The wetness already gathering between your legs made the fabric slide easier, a soft, slick sound barely audible under the quiet of the lot. He met the movement with a helpless upward buck, the muscles in his thighs flexing hard beneath you, forehead dropping toward yours. His breath was hot against your cheek, coming in short, uneven bursts.
You kissed him.
Kurt made a startled little noise against your mouth, then melted into it almost immediately, clumsy, eager, lips soft and a little too open at first. He tasted faintly of the energy drink he’d been sipping earlier, mixed with pure nervous heat. He didn’t really know what to do with his tongue, so he just followed your lead, breathing hard through his nose, one hand still gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d pull away. The kiss was messy and sincere; you could feel his heartbeat racing against your chest.
When you broke the kiss for air he chased your mouth for half a second before catching himself.
“Sorry—was that okay? I’ve never… I’m not good at this yet.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, and he whimpered into it, a soft, high sound that vibrated against your lips. His hips stuttered up against you, the thick ridge of his cock dragging along your clit through the fabric. The wet spot on his jeans was already spreading; you could feel the growing dampness seeping through, warm and insistent against your most sensitive skin.
You guided one of his hands up under your shirt. He hesitated, fingers trembling against the soft skin of your stomach, the slight coolness of his palm contrasting with the heat building between you.
“Can I…?” he asked against your lips, voice barely there.
You nodded.
He pushed your shirt and bra up together the same way you had last week, clumsy and careful. The cooler air of the car kissed your bare skin for half a second before his mouth was on your chest like he’d been starving for it. He latched onto one nipple with a broken moan, sucking greedily. The wet heat of his mouth was overwhelming, soft lips, tentative tongue swirling, the faint scrape of teeth when he got too eager. You felt the vibration of his moan travel straight through your breast and down between your legs. His other hand stayed on your ass, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, pulling you tighter against the hard, throbbing line of his cock while he nursed at you.
You kept grinding, slow and steady, and he matched every roll of your hips with a shy, desperate thrust of his own. The wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the soft creak of the seat, the quiet, punched-out noises he kept making against your skin, and the increasingly slick slide of fabric against fabric. Every time you dragged yourself along him you could feel more of his pre-cum soaking through, the denim growing hotter and wetter under you. The scent of sex was starting to fill the small space.
“Feels so good,” he mumbled between sucks, switching to the other nipple. The second one was already tight and sensitive; the first pull of his mouth made your breath catch. “You’re so soft… and you’re moving on me and I can feel how wet you are through everything… I’m not gonna last. I’m really not.”
You tipped his face back up and kissed him again while you ground down harder. He kissed like he was still learning, messy, earnest, a little too much tongue sometimes but the way he trembled under you made up for every bit of inexperience. One hand stayed on your breast, thumb brushing the wet, swollen nipple he’d just left, the pad of his thumb slightly rough against the slick skin. The other guided your hips into a faster rhythm. You could feel the tension coiling low in your stomach, the friction against your clit turning sharper, wetter, almost too much.
“Talk to me,” you whispered against his mouth.
“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admitted, voice cracking. His breath was hot and shaky against your lips. “I just know it feels insane. You’re on top of me and you’re letting me touch you and suck on you and I keep thinking you’re gonna realize I’m just some awkward kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing. But you keep going. You’re still going.”
You rolled your hips in a long, deliberate drag that made the head of his cock catch against your clit through the soaked fabric. The pressure was perfect, thick, insistent, the damp heat of him searing through. Kurt’s whole body jerked. A full-body shiver ran through him; you felt it under your hands, under your thighs.
“Fuck—do that again. Please.”
You did. He sucked in a sharp breath and buried his face between your tits again for a second, just breathing you in, nose pressed to the soft valley, inhaling like he was trying to memorize the scent of your skin before latching back onto a nipple with a needy little whimper. His hips were moving more confidently now, still clumsy but desperate, chasing the friction like he couldn’t help himself. Every upward thrust pressed the full, heavy length of him against you; every downward grind of yours forced a soft, wet sound from the soaked layers between you.
The pressure built fast for both of you. Every grind sent a sharp pulse of heat through you; every suck of his mouth on your nipples made your thighs tighten around him. You could feel your own wetness soaking through your panties, mixing with the growing mess on his jeans until the friction turned slick and filthy. Kurt was shaking under you, breathing hard, the wet spot on his jeans growing by the second. His cock throbbed so hard you could feel each pulse against your clit.
“I’m close,” he warned, almost panicked. His voice was wrecked, high and thin. “You’re gonna make me cum in my jeans again. I can feel it. And you’re—you’re getting louder too. Are you close? Please say you’re close. I want you to feel good too. I need you to.”
You kissed him hard and ground down with more purpose, chasing your own orgasm against the thick, throbbing line of him. Kurt kept sucking on your tits between kisses, messy and eager, lips wet, tongue working, the occasional soft scrape of teeth sending sparks straight down. One hand squeezed your ass; the other stayed cupped around your breast like he couldn’t stand to let go. The dual sensation, rough, slick friction on your clit and the hot, wet pull of his mouth on your nipples pushed you over the edge first.
You came with a soft, broken sound against his lips, hips stuttering, thighs clamping around him as the waves rolled through you. The pleasure was deep and pulsing, centered right where his cock pressed hardest; every aftershock made you grind down harder, chasing it.
Feeling you pulse and shake on top of him was all it took.
Kurt came with a loud, wrecked moan into your mouth, hips locking up as he pulsed hard into his jeans. Thick, hot wetness soaked through the fabric in heavy spurts until you could feel every throb against your still sensitive clit, warm, messy, flooding the space between you. He kept grinding weakly through it, clinging to you, sucking desperately at your nipple even as his body shook apart. The wet sounds were obscene now; the scent of his release mixed with everything else until the whole car felt heavy with it.
It took a long minute for both of you to stop trembling.
Kurt stayed buried against your chest afterward, breathing hard, lips still brushing your skin like he didn’t want to pull away. His hands had gone gentle, one stroking slowly up and down your back, the other resting lightly on your waist. You could feel his heart still racing against your ribs, the damp heat of his spent cock softening slowly between you, the cooling wetness on both your clothes.
“…holy shit,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse and a little dazed. “That was… I felt you. When you came. I felt it. And then I just—yeah. I couldn’t hold it.”
He finally lifted his head, cheeks flushed dark, eyes glassy and soft. A shy, almost embarrassed smile tugged at his mouth. His lips were still shiny from your skin.
“I made a mess again. Like, a real mess this time. It’s… everywhere.” He glanced down between you, wincing a little at the dark, wet patch that had spread across the front of his jeans and the corresponding dampness on your panties. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get it on you too.”
You told him it was fine. That you liked feeling it.
Kurt’s ears went red all over again. He carefully helped you fix your shirt and bra, fingers still clumsy, then just sat there holding you for a while longer, forehead resting against yours. The quiet of the lot settled back in around the soft sounds of your breathing.
“I don’t want to take you home yet,” he admitted quietly. “Is that weird? I just… I like sitting here with you. Even if I’m all sticky and awkward and probably smell like sex.”
You stayed a little longer.
Eventually he cleaned up as best he could with the stack of fast-food napkins in the glovebox, still half-hard and sheepish about it. When he finally put the car in drive his hand found yours across the console and stayed there the whole way back, warm, a little clammy, holding on like he was afraid to let go.
At your drop-off he hesitated before unlocking the door, engine still running, the soft glow of the dashboard lighting the side of his face.
“Same deal as last time,” he said, voice soft. “If you ever need another ride… or just want to talk… or anything. Request me. I’ll be there. No cameras. Just… me.”
He gave you that same awkward, hopeful little smile, the one that made him look younger than he was.
“And, uh… thank you. For coming back. For letting me… all of that. You’re still the best passenger I’ve ever had. By a lot.”
You reached into your bag, found a scrap of paper and a pen, and wrote your number down. When you held it out to him Kurt stared at it like it might vanish.
“Is this… for real?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“For real,” you said. “Text me. Or call. Whatever’s easier.”
He took the paper with both hands, careful not to crease it, and looked at it for a long second before tucking it into his pocket like it was something fragile and important.
“I will,” he promised, that shy smile breaking wider, hopeful and a little stunned. “I definitely will. Tonight, even. If that’s okay.”
You told him it was more than okay.
He waited until you were safely inside before pulling away. In the rearview mirror, Kurt was still smiling to himself, shy, a little ruined, fingers brushing the pocket where your number sat, already counting the minutes until he could use it.
For the first time in a long time, the next request didn’t feel like a maybe.
Note: So, this is the love child of me and @flashmountainn the little devil on my shoulder who slid into my inbox with a suggestion that had be instantly locked in. And because we all know Teacake is a MUNCH, it had to be done. Happy hump day bitches, Mimi <3
It’s Friday; regular mandated girl’s night. You’re all sprawled across the sectional, legs tangled, empty wine glasses dotted across the coffee table, the air filled with gossip and laughter.
“He was just so bad at it… imagine a cat drinking milk. Literally, no difference,” Jess groans, tipping her head back against the cushions.
“Beginning to think we all need to take a page out of Bella’s book and start playing for the other team.” Priya snorts, swirling the last of her wine.
“Believe it or not, there are still lesbians who are also terrible at it.” Bella smirks, lifting her glass.
Down the hall, behind his closed bedroom door, Travis stares blankly at his television. He’d come in here on purpose, specifically to give you space, determined not to be that annoying roommate hovering where he wasn’t invited. But you’d all gotten louder as the night went on. He knew you weren’t drinking, you had work in the morning; you’d been complaining about the early opening shift to him most of the afternoon. But the others definitely were, and with every glass their voices rose another decibel. He found himself reaching for the remote, turning the volume down lower and lower until the TV was little more than a quiet murmur, and leaning closer to the wall to listen.
Back in the living room, you lean forward to grab a chip from the bowl, shaking your head as you speak.
“I’d take terrible at this point. Luke wouldn’t do it at all.”
“Ugh, I’m so glad you broke up with that dickhead,” Jess sighs.
“At all? Like not once?” Priya asks.
You crunch the chip slowly, nodding grimly.
“Two years together and he didn’t go down on me once.”
Bella makes a face, “that’s just depressing.”
“Tell me about it.”
Travis freezes, staring at the wall like it just told him something impossible. He knows he absolutely was not supposed to hear that. Panic spikes hot in his chest and he fumbles for the remote, turning the TV volume up a little higher to try and drown your voices out, but it does nothing. The words are already burned into his brain. Two whole years?
He’d met Luke plenty of times. Never liked the guy, but he’d always been civil, for your sake. Luke was constantly giving you grief about having a male roommate, making snide comments, acting like Travis was the problem. But Travis was sat there thinking Luke sounded like the fucking problem: he had you, for two years, and never touched you like that? The idea sits heavy and hot in his chest. If you were his? You’d have to physically pry him off you. Okay, maybe that sounds a little intense. Maybe a little weird. But Travis knows, he’s thought about it enough, imagined it enough, he’d be more than happy to make up for every single second of that neglect.
A little later, the wine runs dry and the girls are tipsy enough to be swaying on their feet. You see them out to the Uber, hugging them goodbye, then shut the door and turn back into the quiet living room. You start gathering up glasses and bowls, calling out toward the hallway as you work.
“You can come out now, they’ve gone.”
Travis emerges from his room a moment later, looking sheepish. His dyed blonde hair is all messy and tousled like he’s been running his hands through it, wearing loose grey sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that fits him just a little too well. He gives you that soft, lopsided smile. You lean against the arm of the sofa, watching him.
“You know you don’t have to hide in your room, right? I tell you all the time; the girls love you. You’re more than welcome to join us.”
He scratches the back of his neck, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just… it’s girl night, right? Sanctity of girl night and all that.”
You laugh, shaking your head. He looks nervous, embarrassed, and you realise you might be pushing too hard. You decide to ease off, changing the subject gently.
“Were you watching anything good?”
Travis blinks, and suddenly his mind goes completely blank. He has no idea what he was watching. All he can think about is Luke, and what a waste of space he was, and exactly how much better he could treat you, how you’d feel against his tongue, how you’d smell, how you’d sound. He stands there frozen for a beat too long, staring at you, until you tilt your head.
“Trav? You okay?”
“Huh? Yeah, sorry, just… documentary about… um. Starfish. Or seahorses. Or… seals.” He flounders, rubbing his forehead. “Can’t remember now. Just stuff in the ocean, you know, that British guy. With the… the voice.”
You smile, warmth curling soft and quiet in your chest, and turn to carry the stack of glasses through to the kitchen. You turn back from the kitchen and find Travis exactly where you left him, rooted to the spot, gaze fixed on nothing in particular, so quiet you can practically hear the gears spinning fast in his head.
“Trav?”
Nothing.
“Travis?”
He blinks hard, like he’s surfacing from a daze, and finally looks at you.
“Sorry.”
“You’re being weird. What’s up?”
He wrings his hands together, nervous energy rolling off him in waves, then jerks a thumb back toward his bedroom door.
“I wasn’t trying to, like… eavesdrop or nothing. But… were you serious? About what you said? About your ex and how he never…” He gestures vaguely, hand bobbing in the general direction of your hips, and the sheer awkwardness of it makes you laugh.
“Oh. So, you do take part in girl night. Just from the comfort of your own bed?”
You smirk and his face flushes bright pink, ears burning, and your smile softens.
“It’s fine. We’re loud. I get it. But… yeah. Yeah, I was serious.”
“Why?”
“Um… he never did. From the beginning. It wasn’t like he just stopped, he never started. I never really asked. Didn’t like it, I guess?”
You fluff the cushions as you speak, picking up the blanket and folding it neatly, rolling it tight to tuck away. All the while, Travis just stands there, staring at you like you’ve just told him the most outrageous thing he’s ever heard.
“That is the dumbest shit I have ever heard in my life. What an idiot. The guy was a complete dickhead, no offence. I mean… who does that? You don’t skip the best part.”
You set the blanket in the basket and look at him. He’s wide-eyed, genuinely aghast, hands moving as fast as his mouth, gaze darting everywhere except at you, too invested to hide how ridiculous he thinks it is.
“Like, if I had the chance? If it were me? I’d be down there every chance I got. I mean… shoot. I’d love to get my lips on yours. Either set, honestly. I’m just saying, like, if you need someone to fix that ratio? I’m available. I’d consider it a favour to both of us.”
The words hang in the air as Travis freezes mid-gesture, brain catching up with his mouth. Did he actually just say that out loud? To his roommate? Who he’s been pining over for months? He scrambles, panic rising fast.
“Wait, shit. No. I didn’t mean… okay, I did mean it, but I didn’t mean to just blurt it out like some weirdo. I’m not trying to be a creep. I just meant he’s an idiot, and you deserve… well, not that I’m saying I’m the guy. But I could be. If you… fuck. Let me start over…”
He doesn’t get to finish. You step forward in two quick strides, fist curling tight in the front of his t-shirt, and yank him down to meet you. Your mouth crashes onto his, and for a split-second Travis short-circuits entirely; his brain goes completely static, every coherent thought vanishing. This is happening. This is actually happening. Hang on, is this happening? He pulls back just an inch, chest heaving, eyes blown wide and dark.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You smile at that quiet, stunned little question, unfurl your fist from his shirt, and rest your palm flat over his chest, feeling his heart hammering wild and fast beneath your fingers.
“If you’re half as good at it as you are at talking? Then yeah.”
A slow, dark, devastating grin spreads across Travis’ face. His eyes sparkle, bright and hungry, and every trace of flustered ramble vanishes.
“Bet,” he says with a smirk.
This time he kisses you hard, deep and claiming. His hands drop straight to your waist, fingers bunching in the fabric to tug your top upward, then fumbling with the waistband of your sweatpants, pushing you backward toward the sofa like he can’t decide where he wants you first. You laugh breathlessly against his mouth, lifting your arms to help him pull your top over your head, while he shoves your sweats down over your hips. You fall back onto the cushions together, and he yanks your sweats all the way off in one smooth, frantic motion, barely breaking the kiss even for a second.
You reach for him, curling your fingers into the back of his neck to pull his t-shirt over his head and he lets you, but he barely even seems to notice, doesn’t care about himself at all, every scrap of his focus locked entirely on you. His mouth leaves yours only to blaze a trail down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone; kisses that are just as deep, just as thorough, just as hungry as the way he kisses your mouth. Then he’s back, stealing your breath all over again, before his hands are working at the clasp of your bra, deft and suspiciously capable, the second it comes undone he’s kissing his way back down, hot open-mouthed presses over your chest, closing his lips around your nipples and sucking deep and warm until you’re arching up, already gasping and lightheaded.
He keeps going, descending lower, trailing heavy, wet kisses, soft nips, slow broad licks over every inch of skin he passes; thorough, unhurried, like he intends to memorise every reaction he pulls from you. He hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them free, tossing them aside, then settles between your legs and looks.
Travis’ breath catches hard in his throat the second he sees you; the soft, glistening sheen coating your folds, how you already pulse and wait for him. His mouth literally waters, and he shakes his head, like he can barely believe what he’s looking at.
“Jesus Christ.” The words come out low and rough, dropping an octave like he’s speaking through clenched teeth. “I’m being deadly serious; your ex needs his head checked. He is a fucking idiot. Certifiable moron. This is the best thing I have ever seen in my life. The best thing I’ve ever… shit, I haven’t even touched it yet.”
He leans in just an inch closer, inhales deep, lungs pulling in your scent, throat bobbing hard as he flickers a quick, burning glance up to your eyes before dropping right back down.
“You smell so good. Fuck. I bet you taste even better. God, I’m just… I’m just gonna…”
Before you can even part your lips to speak, he leans in and his mouth covers you completely. No hesitation, no light little flicks, no tentative testing. His lips part wide and he presses full, wet, heavy warmth flush against you, then his tongue sweeps slow and broad from the very bottom all the way up, one long, heavy, rolling drag that makes your hips jerk upward off the cushions. He’s kissing you exactly the way he kissed your mouth; hungry and thorough, like he’s been dying for this, like he intends to consume every last drop.
Travis takes his time, savouring every second. He’s already rock hard just from the taste, just from the soft, slick warmth against his tongue. He pays attention to everything; every gasp that hitches in your throat, every twitch of your thighs, every sound you make. He’s learning you in real time, adjusting the angle, varying the pressure, figuring out exactly what makes your breath catch. He alternates: long, slow, sweeping drags that cover every inch of you, broad and lazy and deep; then he closes his lips and sucks, warm, firm suction that pulls a sharper cry from you, messier, more urgent, the way a kiss deepens when someone gets carried away and forgets to be careful. His hands never stay still; they grip your hips, holding you exactly where he wants you, fingers digging in just enough; they drift up and down your thighs, warm and rough and reverent; they pull you closer, tighter, right into his mouth like he can’t get enough, like he wants you pressed so close you can’t tell where he ends and you begin.
It’s overwhelming, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. His mouth covers you fully, completely, lips sealed hot and heavy over your sensitive flesh, no part of you left untouched. He works a deliberate rhythm, varying the pressure until he finds the right spot, then leaning into it, breathing hot and damp against you, every heavy exhale vibrating right through your skin. It feels thorough, devout, like he’s pouring every ounce of focus he has into making you fall apart.
Your back arches hard off the cushions, hips jerking but Travis’ grip locks tight around you, holding you exactly where he wants you, keeping you pinned right to his mouth, not letting you pull away even an inch.
“Fuck, Travis… right there, fuck---”
You can feel it coiling tight and hot deep in your gut, building faster and harder than anything you’ve ever felt before. Sweat beads at your hairline, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at the sofa cushion beneath you and still he doesn’t come up for air. It’s like he can breathe right through you, devouring every twitch and gasp. When your hips start rolling, chasing the peak, he meets every single movement with the same rhythm, matching you stroke for stroke, like he’s kissing you back; following your lead, letting you set the pace then taking it deeper.
“Fuck--- Travis--- I’m gonna---”
The words dissolve into a broken groan, too far gone to finish the sentence. You reach blindly, grab a throw cushion, and yank it over your face to muffle the screaming, but Travis feels the movement instantly. He reaches up without even lifting his head, tugs the cushion away and tosses it aside, refusing to let you hide a single sound. He’s buried so deep between your thighs you have no idea how he even saw you do it, but his eyes are dark and locked on yours for half a second before he dives back in.
You’re panting, babbling nothing but broken, incoherent noises, your whole body winding tight and then you snap. It crashes over you all at once, white-hot and endless, your back bowing, your hands fisting deep into the cushions as you practically scream his name. Travis doesn’t stop. He stays locked right there, mouth sealed to you, riding you through every shuddering aftershock, tongue working you gently through the spasms until you’re gasping, chest heaving, limbs trembling.
You assume he’s done. Your hips twitch, trying to lift away, overstimulated and sensitive but Travis wraps both arms around your thighs, pulls you right back, and buries his face deeper than before. He doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t ease up. And instantly, you feel it, that hot, tight pull building all over again, too soon, too intense, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you rock helplessly into his mouth.
His tongue is everywhere; circling slow and firm over your clit, swirling tight and precise, then dipping lower, sweeping broad through your slick heat, pressing into your entrance and lapping slow and deep. The sounds are obscene; loud, wet, slurping drags, heavy suction, the slick friction of his mouth moving through your arousal echoing in the quiet room. Travis is moaning right into you, low throaty vibrations rumbling against your skin, lost in the taste of you, and you can’t hold anything back. Your own cries are raw, broken, spilling freely, loud and unhinged. Before you can even catch your breath, the second wave hits, harder than the first, snapping through you and leaving you shaking, limp, and screaming his name into the empty living room.
“Fuckkkk, Travis, shit, yes, fuck.”
Travis feels your thighs trembling either side of his head but still has no intention of stopping. He braces his forearms firm around your hips, presses a flat palm light and steady against your lower stomach to keep you anchored to the sofa, and just keeps going; deeper, harder, louder. The sound is filthy, wet slurping and sucking. You’re a dripping mess, and he’s completely lost in it. You taste incredible and you smell like heaven, feel like heaven, soaked and slick and trembling for him. You’re so wet, so ready, and he would happily drown in every single drop.
Above him you’re bucking, twisting, spilling nonsense cries, and it only spurs him on. He tightens his grip, holds you still, and points his tongue, diving sharp and precise right into your fluttering entrance, dragging slow and deliberate through your spasms. He’s so painfully hard it aches, straining against his sweats, throbbing and desperate. He shifts his weight higher up the sofa, dragging himself closer, and presses his hips down hard into the cushion, grinding slow and heavy against the fabric, seeking any friction he can get while he stays right there, mouth locked to you, refusing to pull away. You’re heaving, chest rising and falling fast, lungs burning as you claw for air.
“Trav… fuck… I can’t…”
It’s true. You don’t think you have anything left to give, every nerve frayed raw and screaming. You reach down, fingers tangling tight into his messy blonde hair, and try to yank his head up, but he doesn’t budge. His arms are locked firm around your thighs, his heavy palm pressing steady, unyielding weight low on your belly, refusing to let you pull away. A broken sob tears from your throat, overstimulated and overwhelmed and completely at his mercy.
Travis is drunk on you; lost in the taste, the smell, the way you tremble and unravel for him. Every drag of his tongue makes his own cock throb so painfully it aches, straining hard and heavy behind the fabric of his sweats. He can’t bring himself to pull away from you, not even for a second, so he just grinds his hips down hard into the plush sofa cushions, rolling and gyrating, seeking any friction he can get while his mouth stays sealed hot and tight to your core. The pressure drives him wild, makes him work harder, hungrier and it’s exactly what pushes you right back over the edge before you can even catch your breath.
This third orgasm shatters you completely. No words, no scream, just a deep, guttural groan wrenched from somewhere deep in your chest as you convulse, walls fluttering and gushing hot and hard against his tongue. He rides you right through the peak, lapping it all up, letting your slick spread across his mouth, his chin, his nose, his cheeks; shiny and messy and marked by you. Fuck, he thinks, half-dazed and delirious. He could die right here and die happy.
At last, he pulls back just an inch, lifting his head. His face is flushed pink, glistening wet and shiny, lips swollen and dark. You let out a ragged, shaky breath, chest heaving. Thank God, he’s done. You blink hard, fighting the weight of your eyelids, tilting your head to look down at him. He rests his chin heavy on your trembling thigh and looks up at you, eyes blown wide and dark, pupils swallowing the light, voice soft and wrecked and thick with need.
“Please. Just… give me one more? Can you do that for me? Just one more. Please?”
He says it like you’re doing him the biggest favour in the world, like he’s begging for something precious. You can barely string two thoughts together, can barely remember your own name, you just give him a dumb, dazed, overwhelmed nod.
He doesn’t waste a second. He slides his hands beneath your hips, lifts you just enough to tilt you upward and then he dives back down. This time he doubles everything. Harder, faster, deeper and his tongue pushes past your entrance, slips inside you fully, burying itself deep and sweeping slow and deliberate through your fluttering walls. He feels you clamp down tight around him, hears the broken little cry you make, and the sheer sight and sound and feel of it all hits him so hard his hips stutter. He stiffens momentarily, spilling right there in his sweats, just from tasting you, just from watching you come apart entirely for him.
Your knuckles are white where you claw and grip the cushions, tears spilling freely now as your hips buck wildly off the sofa and Travis meets every sharp, desperate roll with his mouth sealed to you, inhaling you completely. His tongue drives deep inside you one last time, slow and sure, and that’s what breaks you. You choke on a sob as your whole body seizes and convulses around him. Travis doesn’t pull away. He holds you there, soft steady licks and gentle sucks guiding you all the way down until your hips stop trembling and your breath finally starts to return. Only then does he begin to move.
He climbs slow, dragging his mouth up the length of you. Wet, heavy, claiming kisses pressed hot to your trembling stomach, your ribs, the swell of your chest, all the way up your throat until he reaches your jaw. Then he kisses your mouth, deep and unashamed. His face is still shiny and damp with you, and you taste yourself on his lips as he steals the breath right out of your lungs.
Your hands drift down, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats, desperate to touch him, to give back even a fraction of what he just gave you but Travis catches your wrists instantly, pins them firm above your head, and kisses you deeper until the words dissolve in your throat.
“Trav… let me…”
He pulls back just an inch, forehead resting light against yours, chest heaving.
“Gonna need to give me a few minutes for that.”
“Huh? Why?”
You blink up at him, dazed and confused. A devastatingly satisfied grin tugs at his mouth.
“I told you. This is the best part.”
Realisation hits you slow, “Travis… did you…”
“Cum in my pants?” He says it so casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah.”
He chuckles soft and warm against your skin, completely unbothered, and drops his mouth to kiss slow open-mouthed lines down the side of your neck.
“Listen. I’ll be good in like… two minutes. Tops. But until then? I’m more than happy right here. I ain’t going anywhere.”
He kisses your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth and you lie there beneath him, wrecked and glowing, staring up at him through heavy, soft lashes.
“I wish you’d offered this months ago,” you murmur, breathless and quiet, “and saved me all that drama with Luke.”
Travis stops. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye and the look on his face makes your chest ache. Dark, intense, completely sincere.
“I’ll make it up to you. Every. Fucking. Day.”
You sink back into the cushions, thoroughly ruined in the most wonderful way, and think if he actually keeps that promise, you might not survive it. But as you pull him down to kiss you again, slow and sweet and tasting of you both; you decide you’re more than willing to try.
so now im gonna need perv!gator BADLY. like you’re the daughter of one of the cops at the station, your dad is one of those older cops (and close friends with roy) who threatens every guy at the station if they so much as look at you. but it’s so hard not to look at you when you bring your daddy lunch at least three times a week wearing the tiniest of skirts and dresses… and perv!gator is just barely keeping it in his pants….
uffda
18+ MDNI [smut, language; gator's sleazy fantasy]
and he thinks this time is gonna be different, he's gonna show some fucking self-restraint (cause what is he, some pathetic, pussy-whipped little puke pile?), but then while he's in the break room sipping his coffee from a paper cup, you stride in with your dad's lunch in a container in your hands.
"hey gator," you throw noncommittally over your shoulder, opening the fridge to stick the meal inside.
maybe you realize, maybe you don't, but either way when you bend over to rearrange some of the other lunch kits and food items on the shelves, your skirt rides up and gator gets a full view of the lower half of your ass. he nearly chokes to death on his coffee, spitting and sputtering over the sink.
"aw jeez, you alright?!" you ask, worried. he just waves you off and storms off to the bathroom. you assume it's to clean up.
really he's hunched over in the bathroom stall, hastily working his camo pants and palming his achingly hard cock over his briefs with a shudder.
"fuckin' tease." he grumbles under his breath, eyes squeezing shut as he rhythmically strokes himself and imagines how he would've liked that break room encounter to end...
how he would've liked to have set his coffee cup down on the counter, calmly walk over to the door and twist the small lock; to see the look in your big, pretty eyes when you realized what was going to happen -- hungry, hazy with lust and want.
"fuckin' finally, tillman." you sit up on the countertop, spreading your legs wide in that useless little scrap of fabric you call a skirt and baring yourself to him completely. you start circling your clit with two fingers, licking your lips with a grin. "thought you'd never notice me, i've been trying to get your attention."
gator strides over with a smirk, dropping to his knees in front of you and licks a stripe up your drenched slit with no hesitation. he grips your plush thighs to hold them open while he tongues inside of you, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clit perfectly.
"oh shit, gator -- god, yes. you eat my pussy so good." you croak.
your back arches, one hand tangling in his hair and one palming and pinching your tit through your thin cotton shirt. he can feel you beginning to clench around his tongue, pussy fluttering as you cum all over his face. he laps up every drop before standing and grabbing the hair at the back of your head, pulling you back to kiss you deeply, sloppily, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
"please can i have your cock, gator? i bet it's so fuckin' big, i want you to fuck me stupid with it."
"fuck yeah, baby. i'm gonna split you wide open." gator says to you (and actually whimpers to himself in the real world, where he's desperately jerking himself off and biting his forearm to stifle his grunts).
he spears you with the blunt head of his dick, pushing into you smoothly from how wet and worked up you already are. your nails dig into his shoulder as you cry out, begging for him to fuck you hard and fast. he obliges, eyes rolling back at how tightly you're squeezing him.
"gator, fuck! oh yes, yes!" you squeal in his ear, far too loud to keep this little secret rendezvous between you both. he clamps a thick, rough hand over your mouth, feeling your hot breath and the gentle press of your tongue laving against his palm as every thought other than the heavy drag of his cock against your inner walls leaves your mind; you're seeing stars.
gator feels the coil in his own belly snap just before hot, thick ropes of cum paint your insides the bathroom wall. he whimpers your name, and as his eyes flutter open he sneers at the mess he now has to haphazardly clean up with the one-ply toilet paper in the stall.
he tears open the bathroom door, kicking himself for giving in and annoyed that he feels a little sticky now. his shoulder slams into someone, and just as he turns to bitch them out, he sees it's you and stops.
"oh, hell. sorry gator. i just can't stay out of your way today, can i?" you smile shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and tilting your head at him in concern. "y'okay tillman? you look flushed."
"nah. m'fine. see ya around."
he brushes by you, rolling his eyes at his stupid response. you bite your lip and watch his tight ass as he storms out of the station. god, if he would just give you one sign that he was interested in you...
best friends brother! steve harrington x female reader
warnings: 18+ smut: unprotected p in v, dirty talk, name-calling, cream pie, mouth covering. i think that’s all srry if i miss anything!
summary: your best friend's brother fucks you in your room that's right next door to hers.
wc: 1.6k
a/n: this trope won the poll BUT IDK HOW TO FEEL ABT MY WRITING IN THIS so i hope you all enjoy <3!
dividers credits : @httpssturns
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"Oh, Steve, don't stop!" You moan while looking at him between your legs.
"You need to be quiet, baby. She's a light sleeper." He says before diving back into your pussy.
The light sleeper in question was Cassie. Also known as your best friend and Steve’s sister, who was sound asleep in the bedroom down the hall.
You and Cassie had been friends for years. It was just a bonus that she had a super hot older brother who would hang with the two of you sometimes.
Once you girls graduated from high school, you all decided to become roommates to save some money. Ever since, things started heating up between you and Steve. Moving in together only made it harder to keep your feelings at bay.
The first time something happened between you two was during the first couple of weeks of living in your new three-bedroom house with the Harringtons. You were tossing and turning all night, so you went downstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water, not knowing Steve had the same idea.
Nothing major happened that night, but you started catching up, and you got in the habit of waking up for ‘a glass of water,’ and Steve was always there waiting for you.
As time went on, you could no longer hide the fact that you wanted your best friend's brother. It only took a couple more days until you guys made out on the kitchen counter after so much sexual tension had built. Then, by the end of that week, he had you bent over the dining table while plunging inside of you one late night.
Ever since then, you guys have been messing around in secret, and tonight was no different.
The three of you had been watching a movie when Cassie said she had an early shift at the cafe tomorrow morning. So she headed to bed, which gave you the green light to scoot closer to Steve.
It didn’t take long for things to start heating up between the two of you now that you were alone.
"I'll never get enough of this fucking pussy." He says while your fingers grip his hair to hold him close to your cunt. His tongue is repeatedly moving in and out of you while you lie back on the couch and grind against his face.
"Oh my god, I'm gonna come, Fuck!" Steve gets you to your end by sucking on your clit until you have to push him off because of how sensitive you are.
He kisses up your body, massaging your tits over your shirt that is now sitting atop of your naked breasts.
You feel his hard cock under his boxers and tease him over the fabric.
“Take me to my room, Steve.” Your hands trail up to cup his face. “I want you to fuck me.”
He wasted no time in picking you up and throwing your body over his shoulder with a hand on one of your ass cheeks.
If his sister woke up right now and walked into the hallway, you’d both be fucked.
You both stay silent as he walks into the hallway and enters your room. One thing you have yet to do is fuck in your room. It was sort of off limits to the both of you, knowing your room was between Cassie's and Steve’s. So you always went to his because it was the furthest away from his sisters.
There was just something about the fact that it was a risk to have sex in your bedroom that turned you on even more.
“Are you going to be quiet for me?” Steve mumbles against your neck as he places you down on the edge of your bed. His mouth presses hot kisses against you “Don’t want her waking up to the sound of you screaming my name.” He chuckles.
You nod and cup his face, “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
Steve looks at you sitting on the edge of your bed, legs spread, only a big T-shirt and panties left on. You grab the end of your shirt before taking it off and throwing it somewhere around the room.
He stares at your body as he massages his cock over his boxers. His hands grip the waistband and slips it off, his hard cock slapping his stomach.
It’s leaking from the tip, red and angry from eating you out on the couch.
He walks over to you and plays with the hem of your lace panties. “Naughty girl, wearing nothing but lace panties underneath your shirt. Just to watch a movie with your best friend and her brother?”
“Wanted to look pretty for you.” You squirm under his gaze and from the feeling of his hands on you. He starts to peel down the lace, leaving you bare.
“You do, baby.” He grabs your thighs to bring you closer to the edge of the bed. His cock hovering right above your pussy.
You take it in your hands and stroke it a few times. He’s hot to the touch.
“Steve, I want you.” He looks at you, then at your hands on him. You’re about to put him inside of you until he pulls back.
“Patience.” He says as he takes his cock in his hand and places it on your pussy and slowly moves his hips to rub against you.
His tip hits your clit with every small thrust. “Steve, please!” you whine. You felt like you were going to explode if he didn’t put his dick inside of you.
“What the matter, baby? Doesn’t this feel good?” He smirks and moans at the feeling of your wet pussy coating him.
You nod quickly, “Yes, so good, Steve.” You buck your hips into his. “I need more.”
Without warning, he places his tip at your entrance and pushes all the way in, hip to hip.
“Oh my god!” You yell, and he quickly puts his hand over your mouth to hide your moans.
“That’s not very quiet of you, baby.” Your hands grip his back, holding him close to you as he thrusts in and out of your sensitive pussy. He was big, and you never knew if you’d get used to it.
Your moans are muffled by his hand, but it only makes you wetter. He picks up his speed, and he grunts with every thrust.
“Fuck you’re so tight. Such a perfect little pussy getting pounded. Does it turn you on that your best friend is just next door?” He takes his hand off of your mouth.
You forget that the only thing between you guys and Cassie is a very thin wall, but the idea of getting caught is somewhat exciting.
Your pussy clenches at the thought.
“Fucking slut.” His thrusts get even faster, his cock bruising your cervix. You’d definitely feel this tomorrow.
“Shit, don’t stop!” You feel your orgasm coming, so you take your hand between your legs and start to play with your clit.
Steve watches as you play with yourself, and you feel him twitching inside of you. He’s not too far behind you.
“So filthy. Come on my cock, baby.” He takes one of your nipples into his mouth, flicking with his tongue, only adding to your pleasure.
You feel so overwhelmed when you come for the second time tonight, this one feeling like an out-of-body experience. “Fuck!!!” You moan as your eyes roll back and toes curl.
Steve fucks you through your orgasm until he’s close. “Where do you want it?” He asks, eyebrows scrunched in pleasure.
“Fill me up.” Is all he needed to hear to let his load spill inside you, covering your velvety walls, his favorite place to come.
“Oh, fuck.” His hips stop; your pussy still pulsing around his cock from your own orgasm adding onto the waves of his. You run your hands up and down his biceps to soothe him.
You stay connected for a couple of minutes, worn out from the mind blowing sex you just had. Steve finally pulls out, and you whine in discomfort.
"I know, I'm sorry, baby." He grabs his boxers off the floor to clean you up, but he can't help but watch his cum slowly drip out of your pussy. You start to feel hot just from him staring at your come covered pussy.
He licks his lips and shakes his head before cleaning you up and slipping on a new pair of cotton panties over you. You crawl to the top of the bed to get under the covers and ready for bed.
Steve puts his sweats back on and walks to your side.
"I'll see you in the morning, okay?" He pushes your hair out of your face before placing a kiss on your hairline.
"Stay, please?" You know it's a risk, but you explain that Cassie would be gone by 6am and wouldn't look in either of your bedrooms to say goodbye.
You convince him, and he cuddles right next to you. The two of you had been able to sleep in the same bed a few times, and it only made you wish that you could do it every night. You hear Steve's light snores, confirming he's asleep.
Every night before you go to bed, you think to yourself about what you and Steve are. His arm wrapped around your body and face nuzzled into your neck, makes you think you two could work out of your little bubble you’ve created.
The main thing stopping you was Cassie. It feels like a pit in your stomach. How would you tell her that you're in love with her brother? Would she hate both of you? Or would she hate only you?
You fall into an asleep, not knowing that the next morning Cassie would get a message that she no longer needed to come in for the morning shift by some miracle. In fact, you didn't know that she'd open the door to see you and her brother wrapped around each other, sleeping peacefully with your guys clothes scattered across the room.
summary - your obsession with the boy from the family video is out of hand but little do you know he has the same obssesion with you.
n - steve harrington the man that you are in that green fucking vest
time stamp - 7:30pm
"Bitch, this is the fifth time this week we've been here—don't you think that cute boy is going to notice?" your best friend ivy rambled in your ear.
Okay, so what? Maybe you had a problem...or maybe you just have a crush.
"Well, if he notices, then that just gives him more of a reason to talk to me," you said, your gaze drifting toward the front desk.
Steve was busy with a customer, his back turned as the muscles beneath his shirt shifted. The stupid green vest he had to wear somehow only made it worse—he looked ridiculously sexy.
"You're drooling," Ivy chuckled from behind you.
"Shut the fuck up, ivy," you muttered under your breath.
"Gosh, maybe instead of just watching him, you should actually go talk to him," Ivy rolled her eyes, flipping through scary movies as her gaze flickered back towards you.
"Easy for you to say," you muttered under your breath. "Someone that fucking sexy is not going to pay attention to me, Ivy."
Your eyes stayed on him—the way his hands moved when he talked, the curve of his smile, his hair, his eyes. Every little detail pulled you in, your thoughts racing as the realization hit you a little too late.
"Ivy, this is pathetic—you're right. I'm fucking crazy, and we need to leave before he actually notices I've been here for the fifth time this week," you said, your voice frantic as heat rushed to your face.
"Okay let's g—“
"Did you guys find everything you need?" a voice cut Ivy off, and by the look on your best friend's face, and the voice you heard, you knew this was not fucking good.
Your body shifted as you turned to look at the person now standing just a few feet away from you.
Steve fucking Harrington.
Your eyes went wide as you glanced back at Ivy, silently pleading with her to answer him—because there was no way you were talking to him.
"Oh, yeah—we were just about to leave," Ivy said, a gentle smile on her face.
His eyebrow lifted, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You know this is your fifth time coming in this week without actually getting a movie," he said, glancing between you and Ivy.
“Oh my gosh,” you muttered quietly to yourself.
if anything could end you, it would be this exact moment.
“W-what?” We got a movie last week…” you trailed off, squinting at his name tag as if you didn’t already know it.
Then you glanced back up. “Steve—we got fucking ghostface.”
“Oh, really? So when did you turn it in?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting.
“because it’s been more than two days since you rented it.”
fucking dick.
“fuck off, Steve.” You shot a dirty look, your expression full of irritation.
“Jesus, why are you being such a bitch right now?”
"Fuck you, Steve. You're being a dick trying to call us out. Do you really think that shit is cute?" you shot back.
You didn't even know why you were acting like this. Maybe it was just from being embarrassed.
You thought he was cute. You'd spent the last five days finding any excuse to be around him, yet the second he looked your way, your mouth betrayed you.
"Let's just go..." Ivy whispered, grabbing your wrist and gently tugging you away. Your glare stayed locked on Steve until Ivy finally pulled you outside.
"Jesus--" Ivy shoved the door open before turning to face you. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Your name left her lips sharply. "You've been practically stalking this guy for five days, and the second he notices you, you start acting like a complete bitch."
Her words hit harder than you wanted to admit.
Because she was right. You were acting like a huge bitch. You yanked your wrist out her grip. frustration bubbling over you. "Well, you can fuck off too, Ivy. I don't need you telling me shit."
her face twisted with disbelief. "What the fuck is your problem?" she snapped. "You know what? Fuck this. Find your own ride home, dumbass bitch."
She turned on her heel and stormed off, throwing her middle finger up without looking back.
Shit. What the fuck. "I did it again," you mumbled, your voice barley above a whisper. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes as you stood there alone.
The bell above the family video store chimed as the door opened. Someone stepped outside. You heard their footsteps drawing closer.
Instantly your hands flew to your face, hurriedly wiping away the tears that had slipped down your cheeks.
You turned your head. It was Steve. He stood a few feet away, looking down at you. Guilt was written all over his face, mixed with something softer.
"Hey... um, my bad for calling you a bitch." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Are...are you okay?"
His voice was rough, but there was a quiet gentleness beneath it. A humorless laugh slipped past your lips. "Why are you apologizing?" you asked, shaking your head. "I was completely out of line. if anyone should be sorry, it's me."
Your eyes met his, and suddenly all that confidence from earlier disappeared. Now, all you felt was nervous. Steve let out a small sigh.
"Well... you were right. I shouldn't have called you out like that." He shrugged awkwardly. "I just... notice you come in here a lot."
Heat rushed to your face. "And... you kind of stare at me sometimes." He scratched the back of his head before laughing nervously. "I didn't really know what to make of it."
You opened your mouth to explain yourself, but he kept going. "And, uh..." He hesitated, waving his hands around as he searched for the right words. "I also thought you were cute."
There was just silence between you two. Steve froze. His eyes widened as the realization hit him. "Oh... oh shit." He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. "My bad. that probably sounded really fucking weird."
A smile spread across your face. "So..." you teased, titling your head. "You think I'm cute?" a playful smirk tugged at your lips as a soft laugh escaped your lips.
Steve looked at you for a second before a sheepish grin broke across his face, the tips of his ears turning bright red. "Yeah," he admitted quickly. "I kinda do."
time stamp - 11:00pm
“Thank you again for bringing me home.” A shy smile tugged at your lips, your cheeks tinting pink as you glanced over at him from the passenger seat.
After Steve admitted you were cute, you finally confessed why you kept coming into the store so often. It was a little embarrassing to say out loud. And even after everything—the attitude, the way you acted he still insisted on driving you home after closing.
Steve, on the other hand, didn’t quite understand himself. He didn’t know why he cared so much, why he offered easily after seeing how you acted.
He had been watching you for months, learning your daily routine, habits, he knew everything about you before he even directly spoke to you.
And you hadn’t realized any of it. Not once. Maybe the fact that he knew exactly how to get to your house without asking should have unsettled you. Maybe it should have made you question things. But your thoughts were to clouded, too caught up in the fact that the boy you’d been quietly obsessing over was right here, driving you home, talking to you for what felt like hours about everything and nothing at the same time.
“Anytime… could i possibly get your number?” His lips curved into a small smirk. “Maybe i could bring you home again—on a different occasion.”
Every part of you felt nervous under his gaze, your stomach twisting slightly. “Yeah… here, let me write it down,” you mumbled.
You fumbled through your purse, pulling out a tissue and pen. Your hand steadied as you quickly scribbled your number down, the ink slightly smudging against the thin paper.
“Here you go, Steve.” You leaned closer to the open window, extending your hand. His met yours halfway, your fingers brushing for a brief second—soft, but enough to make you feel a warm puddle in your lower belly.
“Thank you again, i hope to see you soon,” you said quickly, your words rushing out as you stepped back and turned toward your front door.
A wide smile spread across your face as you walked inside, your mind still spinning from everything that just happened.
Steve watched you the entire time, his eyes lingered a moment longer before he finally pulled away from the curb—his own smile settling in as he drove off.
time stamp 2:40am
Steve found himself outside your house, eyes fixed on your window. Everyday for the past two months this is what he had been doing, before he got the courage to speak to you that night.
You never went to sleep early, you liked to take your time after a long day—coming home, showering, grabbing something to eat, flipping through a book.
But tonight was different, Steve watched you, the way your back arched up off your bed. Your mouth slightly parted, two fingers plunged inside yourself, slightly moving in n out as he watched you rub your clit with your thumb.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and he couldn’t help but feel his cock leak precum, his tip throbbing against his boxers as it rubbed against them. A whimper leaving his mouth as he rubbed his palm over his erection.
“O-oh fuck,” Steve groaned, he knew this was wrong, as much as he wanted to sit there and watch you while he fucking touched himself he knew he couldn’t.
A groan left his mouth one last time as he banged his head against the steering wheel, his hand reaching to turn on the car and driving away.
The thought of you and the way you touched yourself lingered in his head the whole way home. Steve Harrington was going to have you one way or another. Even if it meant being a complete fucking psycho.
n - please i had such writers block at the end of this shit, my apologies if it genuinely sucks towards the end 💔. this was in the work’s for a couple day’s and oh my gosh it took me forever to proofread and edit and then change shit up all over again, but i somewhat like the outcome of the beginning. ugh and i love steve so much, and oh my gosh i would love to tell you all that i appreciate every single one of you who have reblogged, commented, liked, and followed me! it mean’s so much i always have had such a huge insecurity on writing because i see so many amazing writers and it make’s me feel like i could do much better then what i do 🥲, but all the likes and reblogs have made me think other wise cause you guys seem to love it. but i hope you all continue to enjoy and read my work!
Summary: You’re stuck in brutal LA traffic with awkward, try-hard rideshare driver Kurt Kunkle (KurtsWorld96). After two hours of his nervous jokes, camera fiddling, and desperate need for attention, you decide to give the pathetic little fame gremlin exactly what he’s craving.
Word count: 2.4K
Warnings: NSFW, breast worship, nipple play, inexperienced/virgin Kurt, masturbation (m), Kurt being pathetically horny
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The traffic on the 101 was a special kind of hell that night. What should have been a quick hop from your place to the rooftop party in Silver Lake had turned into a two-hour crawl of brake lights and exhaust. You’d almost canceled the Spree ride twice, but the driver, some guy with a 4.98 rating and the username KurtsWorld96 had already accepted, and you were already running late.
When you slid into the passenger seat, Kurt greeted you like you were the first real human he’d seen in weeks.
“Hey! Welcome to the ride! KurtsWorld96 in the house — or, y’know, in the car. Haha. Content is king, right?” He flashed a too-big smile, ears already pink. The interior of his beat-up sedan was rigged with at least four small cameras: one on the dash, one on the rearview, one angled toward the passenger seat, and a little GoPro-looking thing clipped to the sun visor. He kept glancing at them, adjusting angles with nervous fingers while he pulled into traffic.
You noticed immediately. He noticed you noticing.
“Oh — those? Just for the stream. I do these long-form rides sometimes. ‘A Day in the Life of a Rideshare Guy Trying to Make It.’ People love behind-the-scenes stuff. Authenticity, y’know?” He laughed too loud at his own joke, then launched into a rapid-fire monologue about algorithms, engagement, and how some influencer you’d never heard of had gone viral last week by doing “relatable car content.”
He was trying so hard.
Every time you chuckled at one of his awkward bits, the self-deprecating jokes about his follower count, the way he name-dropped people like they were household names, his whole face lit up. Ears went full red. He’d glance over at you like he couldn’t believe you were actually listening, then immediately look back at the road like he’d been caught staring. His knuckles were white on the wheel at first. By the time you hit the worst of the gridlock, he was loosening up, one hand gesturing wildly while he talked about his “master plan” to blow up.
“Most passengers just stare at their phones the whole time,” he said at one point, voice dropping a little. “Like I’m not even here. But you’re… cool. You’re actually talking to me. That’s rare.”
You caught the lonely edge under the hype-man energy. This guy, 23, living in his parents’ shadow, rigging his car like a mobile studio, desperate for anyone to give a shit, was vibrating with the need to be seen. And underneath the try-hard streamer persona, there was something weirdly sweet about how genuinely excited he got when you laughed.
By the time the exit finally appeared, Kurt looked equal parts exhausted and wired, like he’d been mainlining Red Bull and validation for two straight hours.
He pulled up to your drop-off spot on a quiet side street a block from the party, put the car in park, and turned to you with that eager, hopeful smile.
“Uh… thanks for riding with me. And talking. Seriously. Most people just… yeah. This was… actually kinda dope.” He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. “Five stars? Or, like… whatever. No pressure.”
You could see it all over him, the inexperience, the desperate need to seem cool, the way his eyes kept flicking to your face like he was memorizing every detail for later. The cameras were still rolling. He didn’t seem to care anymore.
Before you opened the door, you tilted your head and said it casually, like you were offering him a stick of gum:
“Hey, Kurt… you want to see my tits?”
His brain bluescreened so hard you could almost hear it.
Kurt’s eyes went wide, mouth falling open. The blush that had been living on his ears exploded across his cheeks and down his throat. He made a strangled little noise that was half-laugh, half-choke.
“W-wait — for real? Like… right now? In the car?” His voice cracked. He glanced wildly around the empty street, then back at you, then at the cameras, then back at you. “Is this — are you pranking me for content? Because if you are, that’s actually genius, but also I might die—”
You just smiled and shook your head.
He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I mean… yeah. Fuck yeah. If you’re serious. I won’t — I won’t film it or anything unless you say it’s okay. I just… holy shit.” He was already leaning forward a little, breathing shallow, one hand still gripping the wheel like a lifeline. The bulge in his jeans was already obvious, twitching visibly as his brain caught up to what was happening.
You didn’t tease it out. You just grabbed the hem of your shirt and bra together and pulled them up in one smooth motion, letting your tits spill free right there in the passenger seat of his rigged-up rideshare car.
Kurt made a sound like he’d been punched in the chest.
“Fuuuuck…” It came out hoarse, broken. His eyes locked onto your breasts like they were the only thing that had ever mattered in his entire life. His mouth hung open, breath fogging the air between you. The cool-guy streamer act shattered completely. “Jesus Christ… they’re… they’re perfect. I mean — shit, I’ve never… I’ve never seen real ones. In person. Like this.”
He was rambling, eyes darting between your chest and your face like he was terrified this was a dream and you’d vanish if he looked away. One hand hovered uselessly in the air; the other was still white-knuckling the steering wheel. His cock was straining so hard against his jeans you could see the outline of the head and a growing wet spot where he was already leaking pre-cum.
“Can I…?” His voice was wrecked. “Just touch? Or — fuck, I don’t know. Whatever you want. I’ll do anything. Please.”
You gave him a little nod. “Go ahead.”
The noise he made was somewhere between a whimper and a prayer.
His hand trembled as he reached across the console. The first touch was hesitant, just the very tips of his fingers brushing the soft underside of your left breast, like he was afraid you’d disappear or slap him. “Shit… they’re so soft,” he whispered, voice hoarse with awe. His palm finally cupped you fully, warm and clammy from nerves. He squeezed gently, testing the weight, then a little firmer as confidence flickered in. His thumb dragged across your nipple, circling it slowly, watching in fascination as it hardened under his touch.
A low, needy groan tore out of him.
He was breathing hard through his mouth now, eyes glued to your chest as both hands came up to explore: kneading, squeezing, lifting, letting them drop just to watch the way they moved. His inexperience showed in the eager, slightly clumsy way he touched you, but the pure hunger made it hotter than any smooth technique could have.
“Fuck… I’ve thought about this so many times,” he admitted in a rushed mumble, cheeks burning. “Not — not you specifically, just… real ones. Not on a screen. Not through a camera. Just… warm and soft and real.” He leaned in closer across the center console, face inches from your chest, and without thinking pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the top of one breast. Then another. Then he was sucking lightly at the skin, like he couldn’t help himself.
His cock was straining painfully. The wet spot on his jeans had grown. One hand stayed on your tit while the other dropped down to press hard against the massive bulge in his pants, palming himself with a desperate little whimper.
He looked up at you with glassy, fucked-out eyes, lips already shiny.
“Can I suck on them?” His voice cracked. “Please? I’ll be so good. I just — I really want to taste you. I’ve never… please.”
You ran your fingers through his messy hair and murmured, “Yeah… go ahead.”
Kurt let out a shaky, broken exhale like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven. “Holy shit — thank you, thank you—”
He buried his face between your tits first, nuzzling into the soft valley with a needy groan, inhaling like he was trying to commit your scent to memory forever. Then his mouth found one nipple. The first suck was experimental, soft, wet, almost reverent. The second was deeper, hungrier. He moaned loudly against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you as he sucked harder, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.
“Mmmph—fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbled between licks and sucks, switching to the other nipple so he didn’t neglect it. His hands kept kneading, squeezing possessively, thumbs brushing over the wet skin his mouth had left behind. He was sloppy, eager, inexperienced, lots of tongue, occasional teeth grazing when he got too excited but the pure enthusiasm made up for everything.
His hips were rolling subtly in the driver’s seat, grinding against nothing as he nursed at your tits like a man starved. The wet sounds of his mouth filled the car, mixed with his ragged breathing and occasional broken whimpers. One hand stayed on your breast while the other kept pressing and rubbing at the huge bulge in his jeans, shamelessly humping his own palm.
He pulled off your nipple with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny, a string of spit still connecting him to you.
“I’m so fucking hard it hurts,” he confessed in a shaky whisper, looking up at you with those big, desperate eyes. “I’ve never… no one’s ever let me do this before. You’re so fucking nice to me. So perfect.”
He dove back in, sucking even more greedily now, one hand massaging the tit his mouth wasn’t on while his hips bucked helplessly. You could feel how close he was to losing it completely, trembling, whimpering, leaking steadily into his jeans.
You ran your fingers through his hair gently and told him the truth: “I’d gladly let you keep sucking on them longer… but I’m already so late for this party. I really need to get going.”
Kurt made the softest, most disappointed whine against your breast like a kicked puppy but he didn’t fight it. He gave one last long, slow, savoring suck on your nipple, tongue flicking, before reluctantly pulling off with another wet pop. His lips were red and glossy, eyes glassy and dazed.
“Fuck… okay. Yeah. I get it,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. He looked genuinely heartbroken for a second, eyes still glued to your tits as you started to pull your clothes back down. “This was… this was the best ride I’ve ever had. Like, ever. In my whole life.”
He sat back in his seat, breathing hard, the massive bulge in his jeans still very obvious and twitching. He adjusted himself awkwardly with one hand, wincing.
“I’m probably gonna… uh… think about this all night,” he admitted with an embarrassed little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Probably while I jerk off later. Sorry — too much info?”
You just smiled and told him it was fine.
He watched you fix your clothes with hungry, lingering eyes, then forced himself to look at your face again.
“Thanks for… everything. For talking to me. For letting me… you know.” His cheeks were still flushed dark. “You’re seriously the coolest passenger ever. Five stars. A hundred stars. Ten out of ten, would drive again.”
He unlocked the door for you but hesitated before you stepped out.
“Hey… if you ever need another ride… or, like… anything… just request me, okay? KurtsWorld96. I’ll be there. Anytime.” He gave you that awkward, hopeful little smile again, the one that made him look younger than he was.
You stepped out, closed the door, and walked away toward the party.
The second your door clicked shut, Kurt slumped back in the driver’s seat like all the air had been punched out of him.
“Fuck… fuck fuck fuck,” he muttered under his breath, already fumbling with his jeans. He didn’t even bother pulling the car away from the curb. He just yanked the zipper down, shoved his boxers low enough to free his aching cock, and wrapped his hand around it with a broken, relieved moan.
He was painfully hard, flushed dark, veins standing out, the head shiny and leaking steadily from how worked up he’d gotten sucking on your tits. The first stroke was rough and desperate, twisting on the upstroke the way he liked.
“God… your tits were so perfect,” he groaned, head falling back against the headrest. His hand started pumping fast, wet sounds filling the car as pre-cum slicked his fist. “So soft… so warm in my mouth… fuck, the way you let me suck on them—”
He closed his eyes and replayed it all in vivid detail: the way your nipples had hardened under his tongue, how you’d run your fingers through his hair, the soft sounds you’d made when he got a little too eager with his teeth, the weight of your breasts in his hands. His free hand reached up like he was still touching you, squeezing at empty air.
“Never… never felt real ones before,” he panted, jerking faster, hips bucking up into his fist. “You just let me… fuck, you’re so nice to me… so fucking cool…”
His thighs were shaking. He was whimpering now, shameless, high little noises spilling out every time his fist twisted over the head.
“Gonna… gonna cum so fast — shit — your tits, fuck—”
It only took another minute. His whole body tensed, back arching off the seat, and he let out a loud, broken moan as he came hard. Thick ropes of cum spilled over his fist and onto his shirt, pulsing again and again while he kept stroking through it, milking every drop as he pictured your tits bouncing, your nipples wet from his mouth, the way you’d smiled at him like he wasn’t a pathetic try-hard loser.
He sat there panting for a long moment afterward, covered in his own mess, staring at the ceiling of the car with a dazed, stupid grin.
“Best… passenger… ever,” he whispered.
Eventually he cleaned up with some fast-food napkins from the glovebox, still half-hard just thinking about it. He fixed his clothes, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and finally put the car in drive.
A new ride request pinged on his phone.
Kurt smiled to himself, that eager, try-hard energy already creeping back in and accepted it.
But as he pulled away from the curb, he couldn’t stop replaying the memory. Your tits. Your smile. The way you’d let him touch and taste like it was the easiest thing in the world. For the first time in a long time, Kurt Kunkle wasn’t thinking about views or algorithms or going viral.
He was thinking about you.
And wondering, hoping, if you’d ever request KurtsWorld96 again.
bucky makes you think about having a child all the time. but the funny thing about time is it always, always runs out.
TAGS➝ inspired by i think about it all the time (charli xcx); songfic but not really?; vaguely TFATWS; fwb to lovers; pregnancy themes; soft/slight angst? idk; nicknames (sweetheart, baby); SMUT MDNI (breeding kink, creampie)
READER NOTES➝ afab!reader, reader wears a nondescript dress at one point
AUTHOR NOTES➝ to be honest, i didn’t mean to join this collab (work sucks and i can’t seem to write </3) but the only song that wasn’t claimed was this, so i took it as a personal sign from the universe. i think about it all the time punched me in the gut the first time i heard it on the album. i really hope i did it justice 💚
thank you to @superbassbuck and @heldbybarnes who read the baby (ha) version of this fic and for the ideas—i hope it’s still enjoyable after some changes! and thank you @barnesonly and @iamthatonefangirl for letting me join in on the fun <3
There’s a reason why most companies have at least one line in their contract about disclosing workplace romances.
Mixing work and romantic relationships is like setting a piece of paper on fire in a paper company: a disaster waiting to happen. Productivity dips, you become less objective, colleagues doubt your capacity to show up. Nevermind the fact that it’ll be a big, messy fucking thing if the relationship ends—some might even argue when is the better word choice.
But you and Bucky found it to be the most convenient thing in the world.
As unfortunate employees of S.H.I.E.L.D., you shared the same schedule (most of the time), the same stressors (lookout missions that’s just sitting in a humid car for hours), and the same need to throw that stress somewhere and let it explode.
Some call it horniness. You and Bucky called it biological function.
So really, it wasn’t ‘workplace romance’. It was casual sex.
Except there was nothing casual about how good it was: with the amount of fireworks you’d be guaranteed to see at the crest of every crash, one would call it spectacular, instead.
Because it is a spectacle.
James Buchanan Barnes had been pent-up for far too long and your mouth makes him forget to be shy. You, on the other hand, had forgotten what shy meant the moment you saw him naked.
While the commitment started out non-committal, time had a funny way of bringing about change.
Actually, maybe it wasn’t so much time’s fault. Maybe the whole no-strings-attached approach was a ruse—because despite your equal eloquence in spy work, the two of you are shit at figuring out what you actually want, and even shittier at admitting it. Maybe you’d wanted to get to know each other better, deeper, more, and sex was one way to do exactly that. The obvious way.
The convenient way.
And you do get to know each other better over time. You know kissing his ears make him weak, and the words to say to tear a long moan out of him. He knows how to curl his fingers just right, and the ways you’d like to be turned into a begging mess.
But sleeping together isn’t the only way you get to know each other. You learn a lot of things falling asleep together, too.
Because that slowly turns into waking up together, which then becomes showering together. “Save the planet,” you moan as he pushes you against the wall and drives in, hot water down your backs. Other times are less charged: he complains about the number of your bath products you have but use them anyway.
After a night of long, hard, dirty work in the bedroom, it’s only natural to crave breakfast. You share it with him. He likes his eggs sunny-side-up, he knows you like your scrambled. He clarifies that it’s a sex joke, and only then, you laugh.
You learn that he takes his coffee black (predictably), and he learns that you add a bit of milk to yours. Eventually, like the bed you sleep in and the bathroom you shower in, you drink from the same glass. Eat from the same plate.
Less dishes to do. It only makes logical sense.
It takes a couple of months until the question gets asked: why be burdened with two places of residence when you end up piled in one bed for weeks, anyway?
You begin to share the same front door on a dry April afternoon.
It only makes logical sense.
Just like the agreement you had with sex (in which you cum at least three times before his poor cock can even think about busting—a rule imposed by Bucky himself), the two of you become a couple because it only makes logical sense.
But that’s a lie. A relationship that made logical sense doesn’t look into each other’s eyes the way you do in yours.
The lie shows in the smallest, darndest things.
He sits next to you in briefings. Or across you, if he feels mischievous enough to play footsie under the table, shooting a dirty look at you whenever someone says entry point. Whenever you smile at him, it’s different: a completely understated movement in your nasolabial fold that only Natasha can clock.
And she does.
“Why are you smiling at him like that?” she asks, an amused lilt in her voice.
“Like what?”
She smirks instead before executing the ever-convenient move called Walking Away From the Conversation. You don’t even need to think to come up with the answer yourself:
Lovingly. That’s how you smile at him.
That word is like an elephant you and Bucky neglect to acknowledge for the longest time.
Until you can no longer ignore it, because all nine inches of him are inside of you, his big arms holding your frame as he pummels deep into your noisy cunt, squelching, leaking with everything he’s given you from before. You don’t even realize when you gasp those three words out loud.
Bucky stops then, figuring out if what he heard was real—while you whine at the loss of friction. Your voice wrapped around those syllables sounds too perfect to be a dream, too clear to be a fantasy. World-ending and right at the same time.
So he whispers a realization in your mouth, filling you with so much warmth while his cock slides in once more and does the same.
“I love you, too, sweetheart. So. Fucking. Much.”
As if to curb your disbelief, he punctuates each word with a thrust.
There’s no ‘what are we’ talk. You’re two people who love each other, simple as that.
But there is a discussion. It happens on a beautiful day: the sun spills into the kitchen, painting shadows on the floor so interesting you’d rather stay in and watch them. He sits next to you in front of the island, a cup of black coffee in hand, and you talk. About what you want—from life, from each other.
It’s a dialogue with no real conclusion except for the quiet truth: that the two of you are soldiers for freedom. An irony in and of itself, fighting for a thing you haven’t tasted in a while. But there’s comfort in knowing your dreams are the same—the fighting needs to stop first.
“If only the world could fix itself,” you muse.
He looks at you. “What would you do if it did?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. Fuck off to a house in the middle of nowhere. Adopt a cat. Garden. Count my gray hairs. You?”
Bucky looks at the floor, deep in thought that threatened to drown him above linoleum tiles.
“Not sure,” he murmurs. “I just—after everything... peace is not something I deserve.”
It’s your turn to stare at him: not just the Bucky Barnes sitting in your kitchen, but all his past lives. The young sergeant that loved dancing. The Winter Soldier.
“But you still fight for it,” you reply.
He smiles wryly at that. “For a chance at seeing your hair change color? I’d do that and more.”
You blush, but you understand—you already don’t mind the soft wrinkles gracing his face. Getting to watch him grow old would be a privilege more than anything, not to mention growing old together.
The conversation is about as grounded as a cloud, but you let it float, dream-like, dotted with your quiet chuckles and his words reverberating in your chest. The two of you sit there in the kitchen, watching sun rays move between the blinds, smelling like each other, talking about a future as if you hold it in the palm of your hand.
You don’t remember how the conversation got here, but you ask first.
“No kids, then?”
There was no flirtation. No playful deflection. No ‘but sweetheart, I want you all to myself forever.’
He just nods.
You ask but you already knew the answer.
A child is out of the question. It’s simply impossible while the two of you fight around the clock and against it, saving lives by putting your own at risk, giving people more time while potentially cutting yours short.
So you nod back. Say a joke about the Plan B pills you bulk-bought at a discount.
He looks at you then as your soft laugh dies into an exhale—and in that moment, you can’t really tell what those blue eyes say. A lapse in the fluency with which you’ve learned to read him.
Then he takes his time leaning down to cover his mouth with yours.
Time’s job is to make space for change.
There are days when you wake up wondering if you chose wrong. It’s not a feeling alien to you. Growing up means killing alternate paths, snuffing out your own dreams while at the same time grieving each of them, until you finally grow numb to the death of potential.
But the more you love, the more fogged up your faith gets. Suddenly you question everything: who you are, the color of hair, how you spend your time, and why you made the decisions you made.
Including the thing about not wanting kids.
Conviction shakes like a leaf a the slightest breeze of that thought.
Was it really a choice you made, or was it one the circumstances dictated for you? Was it right for you to have yielded to the state of the world? Should you have been more optimistic, as silly as that sounds—oh, yes, we’re planning for a baby! while the Quinjet arrives on foreign soil and guns are about to be fired?
Will there ever be a time for you to put down your weapon in the first place?
You see a young family at a park and wonder if you chose wrong.
Another part of you—the one that’s darker and meaner with her words—always pulls you back from that daydream by saying: you won’t even be a good parent.
Then the world drags you back with its claws. There’s work to be done, and everything in between is just enough for the two of you. For you and Bucky.
You, him, and a decision that gnaws at you in the dark.
You think about it all the damn time.
Attending a Wilson family barbecue is a rite of passage. You step into your first one with bravery.
Bucky witnesses you survive a barrage of introductions: names and faces, too many to remember despite your training, like the hurricanes Delacroix is vulnerable to.
You were nervous. Bucky knows because you told him as much: when the invite first arrived; last week as you stressed about what to bring to the potluck; and moments earlier, in the car, right before the sole of your boots kissed Sarah Wilson’s porch.
Pride isn’t the only thing he feels when he sees you settle in with one of the older neighbors, chatting easily despite your trepidations. Something else bubbles over when he catches you playing with AJ and Cass—a game of tag, he deduces from afar.
It’s not a secret that everyone related to Sam Wilson is interested to meet the woman that’s managed to wrest Bucky fucking Barnes out of his squirmy attachment style. Sam’s nephews are a part of that group.
To see them be so comfortable around you sends pangs echoing in Bucky’s ribcage. For someone who doesn’t want children, you sure are having a good time. You sure are good with them.
Then, while dessert is served, Sarah’s friend shoves her baby into your arms. You accept, likely to give the mother a chance to breathe, but only to realize someone’s watching you from across the room.
It’s Bucky, a dumbstruck look on his face, too soft for the edges of him.
That’s what tips him over: the baby gurgling happily as you cradle her, staring up at your face like she’s hypnotized.
Meanwhile, your eyes meet his, equally ensnared, for reasons entirely void of the innocence of the creature whose cheek you’re touching.
It’s not innocent because he can’t lie to himself about the heat that just took over his chest. Innocence means gullibly walking past this revelation, while the voice in his head that begs him to stop is wisdom.
Wisdom that life is lived in the present.
For all the two of you have spoken about a better future, for all the things you did to make it real, the future is not where you live in.
It’s now.
The perfect time is a myth crafted by the fearful.
It never arrives, no matter how much you wait for it.
Not three seconds after the keys land in the bowl by the doorway, Bucky drags you to the kitchen counter and bends you over.
The car ride back was devoid of anything but a shared understanding, so clear it didn’t need to be voiced. Two people sitting in the dark, watching the road ahead: complete darkness after the high-beam headlights, a perfect metaphor for the kind of life you’re living.
Seeing you today is the final symptom to a thing that’s consumed him for a while. He doesn’t know when or how it started. Not that it matters.
Because now, he’s yanking your underwear down before hiking the skirt of your dress in a grip that’s sure to crumple the fabric. Because now, he sees how wet you are for him, the glisten of your folds in the dim light.
Because now, he wants to put a baby inside of you.
And he knows you want it too.
“Bucky,” your shuddered breath steals his from his very lungs, “put it in.”
That kind of ask would usually earn you a scolding. He’d take pleasure in clicking his tongue and calling you impatient—“Need to make this pussy cum first, sweetheart”—before ruining you with his hands or his mouth or both. Then, as if everything wasn’t part of his grand plan of making you lose your mind, he’d tease you for being so easy and so sensitive when he finally put his cock in you.
Tonight, however.
Tonight, he unbuckles his belt and presses his chest against your back, pinning you on the stone counter. One hand reaches up your front, groping your tit.
The other guides himself in.
His thick head prods your hole before pushing past it. You swallow.
Then he rams himself in, rocking your body forward.
“Fuck,” he moans.
There’s no build-up. No need for one when you’re already so wet.
His hips begin to fuck into you, and you scream at the pace. The mess between your legs punctuates each snap with a sound. The air is quickly tainted with sin: he feels you all around him, smells you, takes you with the same desperation that’s taking over him. You’re more than a territory to claim, more than a thing to own—because while sinking his cock into your cunt, his body is not the only thing he gives.
Every drag out makes you whimper. Every thrust in steals a grunt from his throat.
You cry out when his blunt tip scrapes at a spot he knows all too well. He moves like he’s fusing himself with you, chasing a high so familiar he can almost taste.
Bucky remembers the first time he came inside of you with startling clarity. The memory replays in his head often, like a favorite movie.
It was a relief. A glorious one that had him burying his face in your neck, arms on the sides of your head, babbling nonsense like “you feel so good, so fucking good, baby, fu-u-ck,” while his cock shoots rope after rope of hot cum inside of you.
He watched it trickle out after. Fed it back into your cunt with two fingers, then tasted himself mixed with you, getting him hard again. His back was red the next day, marred with drag paths from your nails.
It used to be such a relief whenever he came inside. He’s everything you wanted, that’s what you’d moan at him, that beautiful, slurred out “fuck, Bucky, please cum inside me, want everything,” and he wanted you back, just as much.
He wants you all the time—not just while he’s like this, so far up in you he’s sure can feel him in your guts, your lungs, your throat, caging you on the counter with his arms, his eyes boring into your body almost as deep as his cock is. Why would he not want to fill you up, stuff you full, paint your inner thighs sticky with him?
Tonight, however, there’s a feeling that bothers him, souring what was otherwise an addiction.
Tonight, it doesn’t feel as good.
Because he knows it won’t take.
The pills the two of you used to be grateful for, now a source of a strange ire—because he has every part of him spilled into you, yet never to stay.
And now he wants every part of him to stay. To grow. To be in you.
“You want it? Want your Bucky to fill you up?” he husks in your ear, hungry for any indication that you want the same thing.
Your voice forms a pathetic moan in response, but your walls clutch him like velvet greed, and the answer is clear.
Still, he isn’t satisfied.
“Say it, pretty.”
“Want you,” you choke in-between thrusts.
“Want me to what?” he chases.
His thrusts grow wild the moment you clench tighter around him, squirming under his chest while a moan is dragged out of you, long and weak and shaking to the beat of his thick cock, whose angry veins you can feel as he pounds into your pussy, painting his shaft with your slick that makes him dizzy at the glistening sight.
Your toes are off the floor. There’s nothing grounding you now except for him.
“Want you to—gh—fill me up!”
He grunts. “Oh, I’m going to. Tell me what it’s like when I stuff you full, sweetheart.”
“It’s so much, so t-thick—”
He can’t think, so he spits out next to your ear.
“Gonna make you a mom, you want that?”
There’s no room for repulsion or fear. The silence in the car is confirmed through another whine out your lips, one that says yes, garbled and quiet enough for him to demand clarity.
“Louder for me. Want me to make you a mommy, sweetheart?”
“Yes—!”
“Good girl, good fucking girl,” Bucky rasps, but your permission hits his head with chemicals so potent he starts seeing things. Things like a home in the middle of nowhere, maybe a tire swing, and blue plaid tablecloths dirtied by clumsy little hands—
The image loosens his lips and hardens his cock.
“Gonna fuck you so hard your pills stop working,” he murmurs above filthy squelches—God, you feel so fucking good, he’d be a fool to stop fucking you even when you’re pregnant—“fill you up over and over, make your pretty little womb drink so much of my cum, she has no choice but to fucking take it—”
You let out a cry, spasming and twitching into an orgasm that triggers his.
He cums with a roar of your name, eyes rolled back while his cock plugs itself deep in you, pumping you full.
Sweat drips down heated skin. The air begins to thin. Breaths are caught.
In the haze after, Bucky’s errant mind smears shadows of an ending.
A time when he won’t get to hold you this way, or the other way around. An end that’s brought not just by the cruel nature of your jobs, but by the mandate of life itself.
Something clicks then. Something holy.
It’s a countdown.
Time is running out: this is the fightless fight, a battleground he can’t win. There is no weapon to slow it down, no grapple to contain it. Its sands fall with surety. Every minute is a past life, every moment with you is a thing to live and let live, the way breathing means inhaling and letting air go.
Now, in this kitchen, you underneath him with your hair all messy as you twist to look back at him, he learns something new.
He pulls you up, saying it wordless to you with a kiss. You kiss him back, let his hands lift and move you until you’re seated on the counter in front of him, his body between your legs. He traces your sides and expanses, touching all over your body like his palm lines need to memorize you; and all he can think of at the plush of your lips are the regrets he’d live with when he can’t kiss you anymore.
When you’re gone.
It’s a when, not an if.
Regrets are fruits rotten from seasons of waiting. Waiting means that one day he’ll blink, and the home he wants to build with you isn’t there. Because he never built it. Because the two of you chose not to. To be safe.
Funny how that works: sometimes doom grows from the roots of safety.
His stomach sinks, but the heat in him signals the opposite of despair.
The only way to fight time’s passing is to cherish it. Cherish you.
His forehead touches yours when the kiss ends, eyes staring softly. Breaths tangle.
You don’t need to search. The thought is so plain on his face, but hearing him voice it brings relief all the same:
“Can we try?”
you made it till the end. it’s probably buns. but hey i was going to kill one of them off yet i did not so! woo hoo!
don’t you hate when real life keeps interrupting your extremely serious commitments like your wip, your fanfics, and the emotional support music group you’ve been hyperfixating on for the past three months.
Steve not having motivation to work out so you suggest your baby girl be his motivator, his mentor.
So now every time he needs to do push ups, he settles his daughter on her play mat and kisses her face every time he bends down during the push ups, making the baby giggle and reach for his cheeks with her tiny hands.
Summary: Steve's always been careful about slow, unhurried, easy. But when I love you slips out mid tangled up in the sheets, he freezes
A/N: Based on this request. Sorry for how slow the requests are coming out atm, Ive had so much motivation to write and so many ideas pop into my head im literally glued to my laptop 24/7. Enjoy your days my lovelies!
The rain had been coming down since dinner, soft against the windows of Steve's bedroom, the kind of steady white noise that made everything feel slower. Safer. His parents were out of town again, some anniversary trip they took every year without him, so the two of you had the house to yourselves since sundown. You'd spent the evening tangled together on his bed, an old horror movie playing off a VHS tape in the corner, the picture stuttering with tracking lines every few minutes, his fingers tracing idle shapes against your hip, your head tucked into the crook of his neck.
By the time he pulled you further up the bed, the VHS was still running to no one, the tape hiss filling the quiet under the rain.
He kissed you like he had all the time in the world. That was one of the things you loved most about him, how unhurried he could be, how he made you feel like the only thing he wanted to focus on, like nothing outside this room existed. Steve Harrington, who spent so much of his life running from one disaster to the next, always slowed down for you.
"Hi," he murmured against your mouth, smiling that lopsided smile you felt in your chest every time.
"Hi," you breathed back.
The lamp on his nightstand cast everything in low gold light. His hands were warm where they slid under the hem of your shirt, careful, like he was memorizing the shape of you even though he'd done this a hundred times before. You helped him get your shirt over your head, and he paused for a second just to look at you, the way he always did, like he still couldn't quite believe you were there.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low.
"More than okay." You pulled him back down by the collar of his own shirt, and he laughed against your lips, easy and warm.
Clothes came off slowly, unhurried, punctuated by soft laughter when his elbow caught the lamp and nearly sent it toppling, by the way he apologized into your skin like it mattered, by the little noises you couldn't help when his mouth found your throat. Everything about it felt safe. Familiar in the best way. Like coming home.
When he finally settled over you, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes found yours in the dim light and held there. There was something almost reverent in the way he looked at you, like you were something he still hadn't gotten used to having.
"You good?" he whispered.
"Yeah," you said, and you meant it, the word coming out breathless. "Steve-"
He moved slow at first, like always, watching your face for every shift, every catch of breath, adjusting like he had some kind of internal compass permanently tuned to you. Your hands found his shoulders, his back, the dip of his spine, and he groaned low against your ear, murmuring your name like it was something precious.
It built the way it always did between you two, unhurried and then suddenly not, his breath ragged against your neck, your fingers curling into his hair, the two of you finding some rhythm that felt less like choreography and more like conversation, like you were saying things to each other that didn't need words.
Except then you did use words. It slipped out before you'd even fully processed the thought forming, carried on a breath, soft and unguarded in a way that stripped away any filter you might've had.
"I love you."
You felt him go still.
Not still like he was savoring it. Still like something had short-circuited. His whole body seemed to lock up above you, his breath catching in his throat and staying there, his hips stopping mid-motion. For a second you thought maybe you'd imagined it, but no, his eyes had gone distant, fixed on some point just past your shoulder, like he was looking through you instead of at you.
"Steve?"
He didn't answer right away. His jaw was tight, his eyes doing that thing where they were open but not really seeing what was in front of him. You reached up, touched his cheek, and he blinked like you'd startled him out of somewhere far away.
"Hey," you said quietly. "Where'd you go?"
"Sorry- sorry, I'm-" He pulled back, sitting up slightly, putting a few inches of space between your bodies that felt like a canyon. His chest was still rising and falling too fast, but not from anything good anymore. "I'm here. Sorry."
You sat up too, pulling the sheet up around yourself, some instinct telling you the mood had shifted into something you didn't have the shape of yet. "Steve, what's going on?"
"Nothing, I just-" He raked a hand through his hair, and you watched him try to find his footing, watched him come up short. "I got in my head for a sec. It's fine."
It very clearly wasn't fine. You could see it in the way his eyes kept sliding away from yours, in the tightness around his mouth, in how his hands had gone still in his lap instead of reaching for you the way they usually did.
Somewhere in your chest, something sank. He hadn't said it back.
You'd said the truest thing you knew how to say, in the middle of the most unguarded moment two people can share, and he'd gone quiet and far away instead. Whatever ease had filled the room ten minutes ago had drained out of it completely, replaced by something awkward and cold, and neither of you seemed to know what to do with it now that it was there.
"We don't have to, I mean, we can stop," you said, hating how small your voice had gotten. "If you want."
"Yeah," Steve said, too fast, and something in you flinched at how quickly he agreed. "Yeah, maybe that's- let's just. Let's go to bed."
So that's what you did. You dressed again in silence, the kind of silence that felt loud, and slid under the covers a careful few inches apart from each other instead of tangled together the way you usually fell asleep. He turned off the lamp. The rain was still going outside, softer now, and it should have been peaceful, but it just underscored how much space had opened up between you in the dark.
You lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, replaying it. The way he'd frozen. The way his eyes had gone somewhere you couldn't follow. You thought about the words again, I love you, turning them over, wondering if you'd misjudged something, wondered too soon, wanted too much.
"I'm sorry," you finally whispered into the dark.
You felt him shift beside you. "For what?"
"I don't know. For, however I made you feel back there. I didn't mean to make things weird." Your throat felt tight. "I just felt it, and it came out. I wasn't trying to put you on the spot."
"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice was quiet, careful, like he was picking each word up and checking it before he set it down. "It's not you."
"It kind of feels like it's me," you admitted.
"It's not." He said it firmly this time, but he still didn't reach for you, didn't pull you against his chest the way he usually did when you were upset. He just lay there, close but not touching, and you felt the absence of his arms around you like a physical thing.
"Okay," you said, because you didn't know what else to say, and because pushing felt like it would only make whatever this was worse.
Neither of you said anything else. Eventually his breathing evened out into something that might have been real sleep or might have been a good impression of it, and you lay awake a long time before you finally drifted off too, the space between your bodies feeling wider than it had any right to.
Steve didn't sleep. Not really.
He lay there long after your breathing had slowed, staring at the same crack in the ceiling he'd been staring at for two years, and let himself finally feel the thing he'd been holding at arm's length since the second those three words left your mouth.
I love you.
He hadn't heard those words directed at him, meant, not performed for anyone else's benefit, genuinely meant, since Nancy said them to him in his kitchen a lifetime ago, right before everything with them had come apart at the seams. He'd loved her so hard and so completely that when it ended, it hadn't just hurt, it had rearranged something fundamental in him. He remembered exactly what it felt like to hand someone everything he had and watch them decide it wasn't enough. He remembered the specific quality of silence in his house afterward. He remembered thinking he wasn't built for this, for being loved back the way he needed to be, for being someone's whole answer instead of someone's almost.
He'd told himself he was over it. Mostly, he was. He didn't lie awake missing Nancy anymore, didn't compare you to her, didn't feel the phantom ache of her absence the way he used to. That part of it, he'd genuinely healed from.
But apparently some doors didn't close all the way. Apparently there was still a version of him, nineteen years old, freshly gutted, standing in a kitchen that used to feel like his future, who came roaring back the second someone he loved said those words to him in a moment that mattered. His body had just locked up before his brain could catch up, some old alarm going off that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with a version of him that hadn't trusted this feeling in a long time.
And now you were lying next to him thinking you'd done something wrong.
He wanted to fix it. He wanted to turn over and pull you against his chest and tell you the truth, that he loved you too, that he'd probably loved you for months, that what happened had nothing to do with you and everything to do with a scar he thought had healed better than it had. But every time he opened his mouth in his head to rehearse it, his throat closed up the same way it had earlier, and he was left just lying there, wide awake, saying nothing.
He told himself he'd say it in the morning. That felt easier, somehow. Everything felt easier in daylight.
But morning came and he still couldn't find the words, and instead of reaching for you the way he usually did, instead of pulling you close over coffee or pressing a kiss to your temple on his way out the door, he found himself keeping a careful, cowardly distance. Not because he didn't want you. Because he didn't trust himself yet to open his mouth without either saying too little or completely falling apart.
He hated himself a little for it. But he did it anyway.
The distance didn't go away over the next two days. If anything, it settled in deeper, quiet and persistent, the kind of thing that didn't announce itself so much as accumulate.
Steve wasn't cold to you, exactly, he still called the house phone most evenings, still asked how your day was, still showed up when he said he would. But something had gone careful in the way he held himself around you. He didn't linger in doorways to steal one more kiss before leaving. He didn't reach for your hand without thinking about it first. When you sat next to him on the couch the second night, he didn't automatically pull you into his side the way he usually did, and you noticed, God, you noticed everything now, hyperaware in the way you only get when you're afraid you've broken something you can't see the size of yet.
You replayed the moment on a loop. The way he'd frozen. The look on his face, somewhere between panic and grief, like you'd said something that hurt him instead of something that was supposed to feel good. You started to build a story around it without meaning to, that you'd moved too fast, felt too much too soon, put a weight on him he wasn't ready to carry. That maybe what he felt for you didn't match what you felt for him, and you'd just embarrassed yourself by saying it out loud in the middle of sex like some kind of confession he hadn't asked for.
By the second evening, the ache of not knowing had turned into something closer to certainty, and certainty made you brave in a sad kind of way.
You found him in the Harringtons' kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water he wasn't really drinking, the fridge humming behind him, staring at nothing in particular. He looked up when you came in, and something crossed his face, guilt, maybe, or something adjacent to it.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey." You wrapped your arms around yourself, even though the kitchen wasn't cold. "Can we talk?"
Something flickered in his expression, but he nodded, setting the glass down. "Yeah. Of course."
You took a breath, and the words came out in a rush before you could second-guess them into something gentler. "I think I crossed a line the other night. Saying that, in the middle of, I mean, that's not really fair, is it? To just drop something like that on you when you can't exactly process it or respond how you'd want to." Your voice wavered, and you pushed through it anyway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel cornered into anything. If you're not there yet, that's okay, I just- I don't want this to be weird between us. I'd rather take it back than lose you being weird about it forever."
"Take it back?" Something sharpened in his voice, an edge you didn't often hear from him.
"I don't mean I didn't mean it," you said quickly. "I just mean- I don't want you to feel like you have to say it back before you're ready, or like I'm keeping score, or-"
"Stop." He said it quietly, but it landed like a full stop anyway. He scrubbed a hand down his face, and when he looked at you again, something in his expression had cracked open, something he'd clearly been holding together for two days finally giving way. "God, you think this is about you crossing some line?"
"Isn't it?"
"No." He said it so firmly it surprised you. He came around the counter, closing some of the distance that had been sitting between you for two days, though he stopped short of actually reaching for you, like he wasn't sure yet if he'd earned that. "It's not about you at all. I've been an idiot about this, I just, I didn't know how to explain it without it sounding..." He trailed off, jaw working like he was trying to physically push the words out. "It's not that I don't feel the same. That's not what happened."
"Then what did happen, Steve? Because you froze up and then barely touched me for two days, so forgive me for filling in some blanks."
He flinched, but he didn't look away. "Nancy," he said finally, quiet, like the name cost him something to say. "The last time- the last time I really meant it, with someone, the last time I let myself go all in like that, it ended, and it ended bad. And I know that's not- I know you're not her, I know this isn't that, but when you said it, some part of my brain just went straight back to standing in my kitchen while she-" He stopped himself, breathing out hard through his nose. "It wasn't a rational thing. It was just old, and it was loud, and it happened before I could stop it."
Something in your chest loosened, just slightly, understanding starting to bleed into the hurt. "Why didn't you just tell me that?"
"Because saying it out loud makes it real, and because I felt like garbage that my brain did that to you when all you did was tell me something good." He rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time in two days, he looked like himself again instead of someone performing an okay version of himself. "You told me you loved me and I acted like you'd said something that scared me, and that's- that's not what I wanted you to walk away thinking. I've just been trying to figure out how to fix it without making it worse."
"So fix it," you said, and it came out softer than you meant it to, more plea than challenge.
He finally closed the last of the distance between you, hands coming up to frame your face the way they used to before all of this, forehead dropping to rest against yours. He was quiet for a second, like he wanted to make sure the words came out exactly right this time.
"I love you," he said, low and unsteady, like it had been sitting in his chest for two days waiting for permission. "I love you so much, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let two-year-old baggage make you think for one second that I didn't. You didn't do anything wrong. You said something brave and I fumbled it, and I've hated myself for it every second since."
Your eyes stung, relief crashing into you all at once. "You could've just told me you were freaking out. I would've understood."
"I know. I know that now." He huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "I panicked twice, basically. Once when you said it, and then again trying to figure out how to explain the first panic without sounding like a complete disaster."
"You are a bit of a disaster," you said, but you were smiling now, something easing loose in your chest for the first time in two days.
"Yeah, well." He pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there in a way that felt like an apology and a promise both. "I'm your disaster. If you'll still have me."
"I already told you I loved you, Steve. I think that ship's sailed."
He laughed, actually laughed, the sound rough with something like relief, and pulled you into him properly for the first time in two days, arms wrapping all the way around you, chin dropping to rest on top of your head, like he was trying to make up for forty-eight hours of distance in one long overdue hold. You let yourself sink into it, into him, feeling the tightness that had lived in your chest since that night finally start to unwind.
"For what it's worth," he murmured into your hair, "I've loved you for a while. Longer than I probably should've kept it to myself."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His arms tightened slightly. "Wasn't planning on you finding out like that, though. Figured I'd do something less humiliating. Flowers, maybe. Not going catatonic mid-"
"Okay, we don't need to relive it," you said, laughing despite yourself, and felt him smile against your hair.
"Fair," he said. "I love you. That's the part that matters."
"I love you too," you said again, easier this time, no hesitation in it at all, and this time, when the words settled between you, nothing froze. Nothing went quiet or far away. He just held you tighter, like he was finally letting himself believe he got to keep this.
Outside, it had started raining again, soft against the windows, the same steady sound from two nights before. But this time it didn't feel like the backdrop to something breaking. It just felt like home, finally settling back into place.
Can you imagine having an important art project where you need a nude model, only to meet Teacake, who meets every single requirement of a beautiful model?
You typically didn't stress over assignments, but there was one in particular that was chasing away your sleep, precisely because you were having a hard time finding a live model for a painting. A piece you had to turn in at the end of the semester. First of all, because hiring a model was expensive and you'd have to dip into a portion of your scholarship, and second, because none of the models you already knew from past semesters quite convinced you for the job.
The idea was already floating in your mind, from the color palette and the lighting to the pose. But you couldn't find the most important part anywhere. You consulted models recommended by other artists in the field,social contacts, even students who wanted some extra cash and offered themselves for the work, but no one hit the mark.
It wasn't that you were picky about the male physique for your projects, but you needed this painting to truly express contemplation or the gaze directed at a beautiful man. Like someone observing their beloved at the first light of day. Something intimate without being overly erotic, simply an ethereal contemplation between knowing glances.
..........
You were working informally for your university drawing professor. You needed some extra cash for the end of the month. So your job consisted of storing materials and artwork, buying supplies, and handling a few things on his schedule. Sort of like a half-baked assistant.
It was 8:00 PM when he sent you to store some art pieces in one of his units at a storage facility. Since you had no idea which one it was or how to get there, you needed help from the attendant on duty. You called at the reception desk to ask for assistance, and a young man came out from the back room to help you.
God, what a beauty. What a face and what a figure.
He flashed a kind smile at you and you almost drooled right there in the middle of the aisle. You had to clear your throat to get the words out of your mouth.
"Hi, I need to find a storage unit, but I have no idea how. My boss sent me, it's my first time doing this."
"Don't worry, it's easier than you think. Don't let the endless aisles intimidate you."
You could make out his broad shoulders and muscular arms through his drab uniform; he had a thick, freckled neck. Gorgeous lips and big eyes—Jesus, you felt like you were melting right then and there.
"Just give me the aisle number and the unit number and that's it. I'll take you, so you don't get lost."
He had the kind of beauty that went unnoticed by unobservant people. You imagined that in clothes other than that dull uniform, he’d turn more than a few heads at any party or gathering. You were even sure he wasn't even aware of his own appeal.
"Yeah, it's Section B, Unit 14."
"Excellent, you won't have to walk that far. Come on, follow me."
Wherever you want, gorgeous, you thought. He grabbed the key while brushing a lock of hair from his forehead; you lingered on him longer than you should have and hoped he wouldn't notice. You followed him down the aisles while he walked ahead with his back to you, chatting about something, but you weren't paying attention.
You watched his back, as well-worked as his arms. For a second you wondered what it would be like to draw him, and you realized that right there, you had the model you'd been searching for.
"Well, we're here, this is your unit. Just try to memorize where you need to turn and that's it. It's not nuclear physics."
"Thanks, you saved me from getting trapped in this backroom."
He laughed lightly.
"By the way, I'm Teacake. Nice to meet you."
"I'm (Y/N), nice to meet you too."
And what a pleasure, you told yourself.
..........
Once you had properly stored the artwork and straightened up some of the mess, you headed toward the exit. You were nervous because you didn't know whether to ask him to be your model or not. And the fear of rejection was starting to convince you otherwise.
When you reached reception, Teacake said goodbye and told you to have a nice night. You were just about to grab the exit door when a quick jolt of adrenaline made you pivot on your heel and summon the nerve to ask him.
"Hey, sorry, I wanted to ask you something..." you said, biting your lip and hiding your hands in the pockets of your distressed jeans.
"Sure, how can I help you?"
"Yeah... Look, I'm an art student and I have to... You know, turn in a painting as a final project for my painting class."
You stared at the wall because your nerves kept you from looking him in the eye, but when you risked a glance for a second, he had an expression of confusion that made you even more nervous.
"What I'm trying to say is that I need a live model and... I think you'd be perfect for the job. Obviously I'll pay you, and it's not difficult."
Teacake softened his expression and looked somewhat surprised by the proposal.
"Model? I've never done anything like that."
"Yeah, it's really not hard. You'd just be lying down for maybe a couple of hours while I draw you."
"Oh... Well, that doesn't sound too complicated then."
"It's just that... I'd need you to, well, be naked. I understand if you don't want to."
Teacake opened his mouth in surprise; it wasn't an everyday occurrence for someone to ask him to be naked for artistic purposes.
"I'll pay you $60 an hour," you blurted out to see if he'd take the bait.
"$60 bucks! Wow, that's a lot more than what I make an hour here."
"Yeah, it pays very well for those who are brave enough to do it."
"Well, wow, that's incredible—strange, but incredible. I never thought artists necessarily had to have someone present to paint or do those artistic things. I thought it was more like from memory. Oh well, I guess it's kind of like that scene in Titanic, right? When Jack draws Rose on that sofa. Such a good movie, very sweet if you ask me, but me being a model? Yeah, I definitely didn't expect that..."
He kept talking and talking; you didn't know if he was nervous or if he was just that chatty all the time.
"So... are you up for it?"
"Oh, yeah, sure. Count me in for that job. Those $60 an hour convinced me."
..........
You agreed to meet that same week in a studio your boss lent you as a favor. It was the most suitable option since it had great lighting and a bed with white sheets, plus, given the nudity, you couldn't do it in your apartment with roommates who had nothing to do with the arts. And of course, because it would be unprofessional to bring a nude model into your own bed.
You needed him to be there right after work because you wanted to capture him with the first light of morning. He arrived about 15 minutes before dawn.
"Look, we can take whatever breaks you need. I know I told you not to move, but normally if the pose cramps up a limb, you have every right to tell me so we can take a break."
Teacake nodded at every recommendation you gave. He looked quite relaxed, and you tried to be as professional as possible for the comfort of both of you. Besides, it's not like you weren't already used to seeing nude bodies over years of being a student. But that man's beauty had you a bit unsettled.
"There's a dressing room and a robe over there, and the room in the back is where I'm going to draw you. You can undress here while I set everything up to stage the painting."
"Thanks, I won't be long."
You both exchanged a kind smile, and you headed into the studio. Teacake took off his clothes and put on the robe. He hadn't been nervous before getting to the studio, but once he considered that he'd be totally naked in front of a woman he barely knew, it tied a knot in his stomach. He wasn't regretting it at all, but it wasn't the usual routine.
When he walked into the room wearing the robe, he watched you arrange the sheets and pillows in a way that looked disheveled and natural, as if he had slept there beforehand. He looked around the rest of the space and saw an easel with a blank canvas facing the bed; a palette and tubes of paint were already scattered on a small table.
"Um... I'm ready."
You turned to look at him.
"Me too. Just lie down here and tangle your legs a bit in the sheets; I'll tell you how to position the rest of your body."
You turned around to give him some privacy while he took off the robe. You knew it wasn't right, but you glanced at a small mirror on the other wall where his back was turned. And you watched as he slowly slid the robe down his body. He was so gorgeous from head to toe.
You heard the mattress creak and the rustle of him arranging the sheets. You turned back around to instruct him where to put his arms and torso. The sunlight was already streaming through the window by then.
"I'll put on some music, if you don't mind. It helps me concentrate and makes the time more pleasant."
"Sure, I like music."
"We can talk, too. I'll just need silence when I'm drawing your face because I need you not to move."
"Perfect."
"Right now I'll just be making geometric shapes to give the preliminary sketch its form. Then I'll adjust the highlights and shadows, and finally I'll mix the color palette I'll use for the whole portrait."
"Oh. Great, I suppose—lots of technical jargon."
"Yeah, it usually takes me about 3 hours. Make yourself comfortable," you replied while directing your gaze toward him and flashing a smile.
"Hey, what semester are you in?"
"I'm in my sixth semester. I graduate in a year."
"Wow, congratulations then... I, well, I didn't get to go to university, but I would have loved to. I never had good enough grades to even dream of a scholarship."
"Well, you can also get into other types of programs. It might not be the same, but it still helps."
"Yeah, maybe. But I feel like I wasted time and maybe it's not the same anymore."
"Wasting time? How so? You're still young."
"Yeah well, I used to hang out with not-so-good crowds. Plus, I'm very easy to persuade, as you might have noticed. I mean, standing naked in front of a stranger while we just chat—I think that's pretty clear evidence."
That drew a small laugh from you.
"Besides, I spent more than a year in prison."
You stopped paying attention to what you were doing on the canvas and turned to look at him.
"It wasn't anything serious if that worries you. Sometimes you just end up there for being a complete idiot. But it's fine, because during that time it helped me work out. And I guess that paid off, since it's going to earn me $60 an hour today."
You smiled at him understandingly. Because in a way, he was right. He had a stunning body.
"I mean, I'm also trying to focus on myself now; I read self-help books and try to meditate. My job is pretty quiet so it lets me do both."
You kept conversing while working on the canvas and giving him brief rest periods so he could stretch. For his comfort and as part of the composition of the artwork, the sheets covered his groin, but whenever he took his breaks, he wouldn't realize he was also kicking the sheet away entirely.
You behaved as professionally as possible, but with him it was quite difficult. Somehow, he didn't realize the magnetic power he held over you, and after a while he was getting used to the activity, so his shyness had vanished long ago.
"So, did your classmates already find models for their projects?" Teacake asked as he settled back into the same position.
"Not necessarily. The final project can be a landscape, a still life, or a normal portrait."
"So it wasn't actually necessary for you to get someone naked for your piece?"
"It's not necessary for the assignment requirements. But it was necessary for me."
"Can I know why?" His question came with a playful tone. He had genuine curiosity but also wanted to tease you a bit.
"Well, in another class I'm taking, we were talking about the female gaze in art. You know, men have always used women as objects of inspiration and desire, and they've been portrayed in thousands of ways under the male gaze. But what if we tried to expand the female gaze under that same parameter?"
Teacake was paying attention to you now, looking much more serious.
"What if more female artists could portray men with the same intensity and desire? Not just portraying men clothed because we have to be 'pure and innocent' for fear of what they'll say about us. What if we allowed ourselves to be daring, too? To capture our intimacy as part of our own artistic language beyond the carnal and empty. But rather, adding beauty to that private encounter."
"Oh, wow. I... I didn't see it that way. I mean, wow, it's true. The most famous artists are, you know, men. It makes sense then that the male perspective always predominates in art."
"That's right, I wanted to contribute my grain of sand from that perspective. To create a piece that emanates that feeling—as private and intimate as the male artists who have portrayed their lovers throughout history. An ethereal beauty that seems like they might disappear into the sheets or beneath the warm light. Sometimes with playful glances or even deep glances that show so much sensuality."
"And... do you think I emanate that feeling?" Teacake tried to meet your gaze, but the question caught you off guard and you wanted to find the right words.
He had already caught you.
"Yes, I do. That's why it took me so long to find someone for this. I already knew a couple of experienced models, other students who needed the money came up and asked me about the job. But, simply put, no one convinced me."
Teacake offered a shy smile.
"I could have chosen anyone, but I felt like I'd be lying. That the piece would lose all meaning if the person I'm painting isn't... the object of my desire."
You looked at each other with complicity.
"But you're an artist, you could have just made it up and justified it with something else."
"Oh yes, I could have. Used an imaginary resource for it, which in part is true with you too. We didn't know each other beforehand; we have no kind of intimate history. And I wanted this work to look like that. Like when you wake up next to the person who has you falling in love, and you realize he was already watching you before you even opened your eyes because you feel so fulfilled knowing he feel safe enough in his presence to sleep deeply, and it's like a gift. Seeing his face illuminated by the morning light, tangled in the sheets, naked and so beautiful."
Teacake looked at you with a flushed face, and you thought that if he hadn't been handsome before, he certainly was by a long shot now.
"Only God knows what experiencing that feels like. I've never lived it."
"Never?"
"No. I think I'm more just a spectator of my own fantasies. Living in excessive daydreaming. But living it? I don't think a man will ever desire me the way I desire him. But I like to imagine it; art isn't just a medium through which you portray experiences. It can also be a vessel for what you wish were true."
.................
The timer marked the three hours you had planned, and you felt a hollow ache in your heart knowing it was all over. The piece had progressed well; it just needed a few more touches, but Teacake's presence wasn't necessary anymore. You told him he could move now and get dressed whenever he liked. The work was done.
Teacake got up from the mattress with the sheet wrapped around his waist and walked over to you. You were still sitting in front of the easel organizing your brushes when you saw him approach.
"You know, I came because you convinced me with the money. I had nothing to lose. My whole life I've made bad decisions, and I only realized recently that to many people I was just an idiot—someone they could use to do their dirty work and then get me into trouble. But you... you made me feel genuinely seen. Like I don't just exist with or without some kind of relevance, but that I can also be beautiful in many ways."
You looked at him with your mouth slightly open, waiting to say something, until Teacake dropped the sheet completely. It slid down his legs, revealing a semi-erection. You pulled him closer to you with both hands on his torso and kissed the side of his belly button, breathing in the scent of his skin.
"I can't believe you've never been aware of your own beauty. Ever since I saw you come out of the back room, I realized it. Teacake... I..."
"Travis... My name is Travis."
"Travis, it's like you walked right out of my most intimate dreams."
You cupped his erection with one hand, and he let out a deep sigh. He held your hair gently as he watched you stroke him and then guide him toward your mouth. Travis was letting out the most delicious sounds you had ever heard.
......
Now you were riding him on the bed. Thankful that your boss was out of town, with no fear of getting caught. Travis groaned underneath you while your hips slapped against his thighs, making the filthiest, heaviest sounds. Your breasts bounced, already flushed and hard from the bites and hickeys he had given you moments before.
Travis leaned up to kiss you—a desperate kiss, both of you moaning into each other's mouths. Your eyes were teary, and he licked the tears from your face.
"Trav... God, Trav, I can't, I..." The overstimulation was too much for you; you thought you might pass out at any moment.
"Yes, baby, yes you can... Look at me, God, you're so beautiful. Came all over me, please. Yes you can, I know you can." His voice was ragged; you felt like he was about to come soon, too.
He grabbed both of your ass cheeks and worked them to drive you deeper into pleasure, kissing your neck. You could feel the sweat from his forehead against your skin. Both of you were soaked, your skin red and sensitive everywhere you had kissed, bitten, and marked each other.
Your orgasm swept through your entire body as you let it go with a loud moan, tears streaming down your face. Travis couldn't hold back any longer and came moments later, both of your fluids pooling at the base of his shaft, held back only by his pubic hair.
He wrapped his arms around you to keep you resting on top of him. You rested your head against his chest, still drunk from the orgasm, while he kissed your head, whispering sweet things to you that you couldn't quite process yet.
You both drifted off to sleep, immersed in the touch of your bodies and the rhythm of your breathing. It was past 3:00 in the afternoon when you opened your eyes. Travis had shifted you to his side onto a pillow. And in that instant, you realized he was already awake and had been watching you long before you woke up. Just like in your fantasies.
You gave him a lazy smile. He brushed the hair from your face and stroked your cheek with his thumb.
"Hi, (Y/N)."
"Hi, Trav."
"Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, anything," you replied, stretching beneath the sheets.
"This painting... will only your professor see it, or will there be an audience?"
"Mmm, actually, it will be exhibited. We have a gallery on campus where we usually display our final projects. Other students, professors, and guests will see it. Why? Are you feeling shy?"
"No, well, I don't know. I took a look at it a moment ago. You paint beautifully. I love it."
"Thank you. It was all thanks to you, don't give me all the credit," you smiled, stroking the hair on his chest. "You're completely invited to the exhibition. I'd love for us to get a picture together next to the painting."
"Do you really want me to go? Great. I'd love to go. I'll ask for the day off, even though my boss is an idiot, but it doesn't matter."
"Of course I want you to go—that way everyone can see the author and... the muse, live and in person."
You shared a knowing smile.
....................
Fifteen days later, the exhibition took place. It was a Friday afternoon. Non-alcoholic drinks had already been served per university protocol, though there was always someone secretly sneaking in a few glasses. You wore a red velvet dress and dressed up for the occasion. Travis hadn't arrived yet, and you were starting to wonder if he wouldn't show up after all.
"(Y/N)... Your painting, wow, I find it marvelous. It's... so erotic. I could feel your model's gaze. Is he your boyfriend? It gives me such a romantic feeling. I think I blushed in the middle of the room while looking at it. Easily one of the best in the exhibition, without a doubt."
One of the faculty professors was congratulating you, tapping the arm of her glasses against her lips as she analyzed the artwork. You had to lie and say you were a couple to maintain the painting's narrative, though deep down inside, you would have loved for it to be true. While she continued talking to you about the rest of the exhibited pieces, someone interrupted by tapping your shoulder. When you turned around, you realized it was Travis."
"Hi, I thought you weren't coming," you said, a smile so wide it took over your whole face. You noticed he had trimmed his hair a bit and bought new clothes for the occasion. You found it sweet of him.
"Sorry, I had a few hiccups, and plus I stopped to pick these up."
Travis presented you with a bouquet of flowers, something you weren't expecting.
"Trav, they're beautiful! Thank you!"
"I didn't know if it's customary to give flowers at exhibitions, but I guessed you'd like them. You know, I've seen them do it at the theater, like when they throw flowers at actors. Though of course, this is a very different thing and there's no stage, but it's artistic, and I figured I could bring flowers too..." He was being chatty again.
"I love them... Oh, Professor, this is..."
"The muse... a pleasure to meet you. You're so lucky that such a talented artist captured your likeness."
"Thank you, really. I was nervous all week about this exhibition; I've never been painted before."
"Never? Well, I suppose the art world is missing out on something quite special."
Travis turned completely red; he hadn't expected other people to compliment him so directly.
Suddenly, a young man in a gray coat approached you.
"Hi, good evening, everyone. I'm looking for (Y/N) to take a photo of her next to the piece—it's the last one I need for Monday's article," a guy from the campus newspaper mentioned.
"Yes, that's me. Do you mind if my model joins me in the picture?"
"No problem."
"Travis, would you take the photo with me?"
"I'll do anything you ask."
Everyone headed toward the artwork. A few spectators who were still contemplating the painting and discussing it had to step aside for them. Travis was nervous; he hadn't expected so many people to be observing a painting where he was technically naked. But he was somehow enjoying this new experience, because in the end, it was all about you.
About how much he admired your talent and your way of seeing things, even if that meant being watched and analyzed by strangers. You both posed on either side of the painting. Travis didn't know whether to smile or keep a serious posture, opting for the latter. After a couple of camera flashes, the guy from the newspaper headed off.
"How are you feeling?" you asked him.
"To be honest, a little exposed."
"You'll get used to it. I heard someone is interested in buying the painting."
"Really? Wow, congratulations."
"Also, a group of students asked me if you'd be interested in continuing to model. They think you're perfect for a few group sessions."
"Group sessions?! Jesus, I think that pushes my limits—too many eyes on my ass."
You both laughed. Travis kept looking into your eyes and leaned in to give you a spontaneous kiss.
"But I suppose I wouldn't mind dabbling in a nude modeling career, as long as it's your eyes on me."
