Hayley Love

“Ready?” Bob secures the last of your bags in the trunk of your rental car, making sure everything is in place before he slams it shut. The sun has barely had a chance to rise, and Angie mewls pathetically in your front door.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, it’s just a couple of days. Yelena will be over to feed you a bunch, and the twins will take you for walks,” you say with a soft scratch under her chin. She perks up at the mention of Yelena, brightens at the word ‘walks’ too, her sad mewls replaced with curious ones.

“Knew that would make you happy,” you laugh.

Bob comes over to say bye pressing a soft kiss between your ears.

“Why can’t we take her with,” he asks, looking at her longingly.

“She gets carsick,” you remind him. “You know this Bob,” you laugh when he pouts.

“She just looks so sad and she’s gonna be all alone,” he sighs. “What if she’s scared of the fireworks?”

“She’s gonna be with Yelena on the fourth, Bob. She will be okay. Or would you rather kill this trip so we can stay home and be cat parents?”

He breathes deeply, shaking his head before ushering her inside so he can close and lock the door.

“Good. We need to get moving before everyone else decides to start driving too. Don’t wanna rush,” you remind him, tossing him the car keys. “We’ll switch halfway, okay?”

He nods, and after he’s adjusted his seat and set the GPS up, you guys are ready to go start the steady crawl towards Lake Erie.

“I wish you’d told me you shared a lake house sooner,” you say when you guys are finally cruising. Holiday traffic is still low, and you finally relax.

“I forgot. Never had a reason to go,” Bob hums. “The guys normally use it to film anyways. Can’t remember the last time it was a holiday home proper,” he adds.

“The guys? I thought it was just yours and Joaquín’s, you didn’t tell me you had other friends,” you say.

“Of course I have other friends,” he says, offended. “Do you think Joaquín’s the only person I talk to?”

“He’s the only one you talk to me about,” you argue, “and Bucky but I had to be surprised by him, remember?”

Bob goes to argue, then sighs. “I told you. I like keeping you to myself,” he says with a squeeze of your thigh. You try not to focus on the warmth of his hand, turning your attention to the passing scenery.

“Joaquín also likes being the only one who’s met you,” Bob continues. “He likes being special that way.”

“Watch the road,” you remind him, when you feel his eyes on you. Joaquín’s becoming a Topic in your relationship and you’re not sure how to navigate it, caught between trying not to hurt Bob’s feelings and exploring the weird butterflies any mention of his name bring up in a deep corner of your stomach. Bob says he doesn’t really care — that bringing him into the fold won’t hurt him as much as you think it will — but you struggle to square his reassurance with the fact that Joaquín is his best friend.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Bob says, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “You’re not meant to think this weekend,” he reminds you, and the butterflies are gone, replaced by a small spark as you cast your mind to what lies ahead.

“You nervous?” you ask him.

“I’m not the one who has to be nervous,” he reminds you. “That’s all you.”

He’s almost got the faux confidence down to a tee.

“I know, but I just wanna remind you that we don’t have to do this. This can just be a holiday,” you say. You reach out so you can squeeze his thigh. “It can just be normal,” you remind him. “Safe.”

He takes your hand in his.

“It’ll be safe either way,” he says, bringing your hand up so he can kiss the back. “That’s the whole point remember. Safety. I’d be a bad boyfriend if I wasn’t safe with you.”

You smile at him. Weeks of talking, whittling down roleplay fantasies into something that Bob would be comfortable doing with you as a beginner had led to this — a trip to Lake Erie so he could give you the stranger danger roleplay you’d been begging him for since you first watched one of his more intense videos.

“Thank you, Bob.”

“Always. I’ll do anything with you.”

You hum, content as you settle in to the passenger seat and continue to watch the scenery pass you by. The roads aren’t as busy as you thought, holiday goers apparently kicking off their Fourth of July weekends a little later than you thought they might. It’s good. An early arrival meant more time to settle, to familiarise yourself with the lake house before getting into the weekend’s objective.

The drive is smooth, even as traffic begins to build and the sun begins to beat down relentlessly, forcing you to keep the aircon on.

You stop for lunch — gas station pies and energy drinks — before Bob insists on driving the rest of the way.

“Finding the turn to the lake house is difficult. We miss it whenever we go,” he says, planting himself stubbornly in the driver’s seat.

“Then you should’ve let me drive the first half.”

“Sure, but I don’t mind. You’re a pretty passenger princess.”

“Don’t flatter me Bob. I’m driving us home,” you concede.

“If you remember,” he laughs.

“I’ll remember,” you say, showing him the reminder you’ve put in your phone.

“I’ll delete it while you sleep,” he threatens, pulling back onto the interstate.

You just laugh, adjusting the volume on the radio as he cruises, beaming at your lack of argument.

By the time you arrive, you feel stickier than you have any right to, your legs dead beneath you.

You stretch your legs as you bring things into the house, having a look around as Bob turns on the aircon and packs away the food you brought.

It’s cosy, not at all the type of place you expected to be used ‘just for filming’. Board games are piled on the coffee table, and there’s a rack of haphazardly stacked DVDs next to the TV.

“Who’s who?” you ask, looking at a framed picture on the mantle. You recognise Joaquín, though his hair is shorter. There’s a blond with his arm wrapped around Bob and a somewhat nervous looking brunette next to the blond.

“Johnny,” Bob says pointing at the blond, “and Peter,” he says pointing to the brunette. You commit their names to memory.

“You’d probably like Peter’s girl, MJ,” he says. “I should probably introduce you soon.”

He wraps his arms around your waist and presses his nose into your hair.

“You don’t have to. You can wait until you’re comfortable,” you say. “I can wait.”

“I’m comfortable now. It’s just weird y’know. Haven’t been this serious with someone in a long time. I don’t wanna jinx it,” he whispers.

You turn so you can cup his face in your hands.

“Bob, you don’t have to. I’m happy to wait for as long as you want me to,” you remind him. You lean into him so you can give him a soft kiss. “You can set the pace for this, I’ll follow,” you whisper.

“So good to me,” he says, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he crushes you into him. “The videos, and the relationship and this,” he starts, his hand slipping under your shirt. “You’re so good to me. I love you.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it thrills you to hear it nonetheless.

He pulls away with a sigh, motioning for you to follow him over to the couch where he pulls you into his arms.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you’re even the tiniest bit uncomfortable tomorrow,” Bob pleads. His voice is muffled by your stomach, but you hear the tremor, the slight note of hesitation. “I love you. I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, not for the first time.

“I know you love me,” you say. “You’ve never shown me otherwise,” you say, twirling his hair around your index finger.

“It’s gonna feel like I don’t tomorrow. Gonna feel like I hate you,” he says.

He laughs at the soft sigh you let out.

“You want that? Want it to feel like I hate you?”

He’s looking up at you, something imperceptible swimming beneath the blue of his eyes.

“Isn’t that the point?”

You’re ignoring the way his hand has snaked between your legs again, gliding between your folds with the utmost ease.

“It’s a yes or no question. Do you want it to feel like I hate you?”

The soft authority in his voice sets your skin alight, and you can feel desire bubbling up in you again as if he hadn’t just spent the past hour turning you inside out with satisfaction.

“A little bit,” you say.

You’ve gone over this already. Rules, safewords, and colour systems. Everything to gently guide you into a big new step for your relationship while assuring Bob that it wouldn’t change how you saw him, but you’d repeat it as many times as he needed to hear, iron everything out down to the minute details if it meant putting his mind at ease about what you wanted.

“I’ll do that,” he says with a gentle kiss to the flesh near your belly button, dipping his head lower so he can kiss at your thighs too. “I’m gonna be a little mean tomorrow,” he reminds you again. “It’s not how I feel about you.”

“I know, honey,” you sigh out when he nips at the soft flesh on the inside of your thighs.

“I know. Just reminding you. I love you,” he says, and then spends the rest of the night showing you, bit by bit, with soft gentle nips followed by even softer kisses. I love you whispered after slow, soft drags of his tongue against your core, over and over again while he drives you to the edge.

When he’s done, he clings to you until you both fall asleep, warm and sticky and wholly satisfied, on the living room couch with the TV still running in the background.

When you wake up the next day you’re in bed, a sticky note on the bedside table.

Gone out walking. Didn’t wanna wake you. I’ll see you soon :).

Love you. ♡ ♡ ♡

The clock on the bedside reads 11:45 am. You’re not sure when he got up and you consider texting him, but decide to give him his space, busying yourself with tidying up and cooking.

When the space is clean, and you’ve had lunch and Bob still isn’t back you decide to take a dip in the hot tub, poring over the instructions someone has handwritten and left in a basket on the deck. You turn down the heat, sighing in relief as you take a dip. Even with the sun overhead beginning to beat down on you, you feel content.

Out here it’s quiet, the sounds of traffic so far off they don’t even register. You know the lake isn’t too far away and you consider packing a big and sitting lakeside instead, but the thought of walking in the heat keeps you in the water.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been in there, eyes closed as you listen to an audiobook when you hear the doorbell ringing. You think you’re imagining it at first, but when it rings a second and then third time you reluctantly climb out.

“I’m coming!”

You dry off as much as possible, trying not to track water through the house you’ve just cleaned.

“I’m sorry, I was a bit distracted,” you say, opening the door without checking. You expect it to be Bob, but it’s not. It’s a stranger on the other side, dressed in a tank and board shorts, brown hair dishevelled and cheeks red.

His eyes linger on the way your wet bikini clings to you and you wish you’d at least thought to put a t-shirt on before answering.

“Sorry. Can I help you?”

“Uh yeah. Car broke down and my phone’s dead. Can I use yours to call a tow?”

You should wait for Bob to get back, but you have no reason to doubt him. He looks sweet enough.

“It’s on the coffee table in the living room,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. “I’m just gonna get dressed,” you explain as you click the door shut behind you.

“Thank you,” he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Had to walk through so much fucking nature. Didn’t think anyone lived out here,” he says, looking around the living room his eyes landing on a picture of you and Bob.

“Who’s this?”

“My boyfriend,” you answer.

“Is he home?”

Without thinking, you tell him the truth — that he’d gone out on a walk, but he was going to be back soon.

The stranger just nods, and you take that as your cue to slip out, shuffling down to the bedroom.

When you’re in the bedroom, pulling Bob’s shirt over your head you’re thrilled, heart racing in excitement. You never realised Bob could slip so easily into the role of stranger. Sure you’d seen it on screen, heard Joaquín talking about how he could turn it on when the cameras started rolling but seeing it live? Mesmerising in a way you couldn’t quite describe.

You join him in the living room again, where he’s flipping through TV channels, with his feet on the coffee table. You try not to get annoyed because you just cleaned up, but you remember he’s been walking for some time and is probably just tired.

“Would you like some water?” you ask, ignoring the cold prickly feeling you get when his eyes land on you.

“I’d love some, thanks,” he says, turning his attention back to the TV.

“Were you able to get someone on the line?” you ask when you’re back, putting a cold glass of water on a coaster for him.

He takes a sip, then sets the glass down — not on the coaster — before turning back to you.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be another two hours before they can get someone to me. Is it okay if I stay here?”

You can tell he’s not asking, because he’s nestled himself comfortably into the couch cushions.

“Sure,” you squeak out, pressing yourself into the corner of the couch. If he notices how far away you are, he doesn’t say anything, focusing on the TV instead.

The next time he speaks to you, its to ask for the toilet and you sigh in relief when he’s gone. It’s fine at first, the opportunity to catch your breath and relax without worrying about the strange man on your couch, but when five minutes turns into ten turns into fifteen, you feel a strange turning in your stomach. The house is too silent, and you don’t like the thought of him being somewhere you can’t see him.

He’s not in the guest toilet when you check, and your blood runs cold when you realise he’s not in the main bathroom either.

When you do find him, he’s in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed as he thumbs through something. Your stomach drops when you realise just what they are.

A stack of Polaroids, meant only for Bob. Pictures taken when you’d helped Joaquín film for his channel in the spring.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

If your tone of voice rattles him, he doesn’t show it.

“I found these lying around. I was interested. Is that you in the pictures?”

His voice is steady as he holds one of them up. It’s you and Joaquín, smiling into the camera while he gropes at your breast.

“That’s not your boyfriend, but that is you?”

You reach out for the picture but he yanks it away, steadying you with his free hand.

“I’m not done looking.”

“They’re not yours to look at,” you remind him, making another grab for the pictures. You’re unsuccessful and all it does is irritate him.

“Shouldn’t have left them lying around then. It’s like you wanted me to find them.”

“You aren’t even supposed to be in here,” you remind him again, voiced laced with anger. “They’re not for you.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Who are they for then?”

“None of your business.”

“Don’t be like that,” he says, clicking his tongue.

“They’re mine,” you half yell. “I’ll be however I want.”

The rest of the pictures are spread out behind him, out of reach, and your stomach turns as you think about him seeing them. There are so many. Some are just you, almost naked but not quite, pouting into the camera. Joaquín is in a couple. Bob is in most. He picks up another one that’s just a picture of Bob’s hand over your tits, squeezing softly, your faces off camera.

“This still you?” he asks, waving the picture at you.

“Please just give them to me,” you plead. “They’re private.”

He seems to think for a moment, hands resting on his knees before he speaks.

“Show me,” he says, like it’s the most obvious idea in the world. “You show me those pretty tits and I’ll give them back to you. Just wanna see if they’re as good as the pictures,” he says.

“ I just have to show you?”

“Scout’s honour,” he says.

Your gut says no, tells you not to trust the type of man who would go snooping in a woman’s bedside drawers after she welcomed him into her home, but you just want the polaroids back. You slide Bob’s t-shirt off, standing in front of him in nothing but your bikini.

His eyebrows shoot up as he motions to the bikini.

“No. You can see them well enough. Give me my pictures back,” you say holding your hand out.

“I wanna see your tits, not the bikini.”

“You’ve seen them in the pictures. This is my house. You don’t walk in here and violate my privacy and think you can tell me what to do,” you say, trying not to let your voice betray the fear you feel. Your stomach is a sinkhole, growing bigger and bigger with each passing second as he looks you up and down.

“Stop wasting my fucking time. Take it off,” he says, “now.”

His eyes never leave you, and you don’t have a shot at moving him.

“Just fucking take it off. No point being shy when you’re already a slut.”

You flinch, but your hands come up to the bikini tie, tugging it loose.

“There we go. Not so hard is it,” he groans, watching as the material floats to the floor. “Fuck, better than the pictures. C’mere, let me see ‘em up close.”

You listen this time, feet shuffling as you inch towards him.

“You said you just wanted to see,” you remind him, the sinking feeling in your gut all consuming as he gives one of them a harsh squeeze.

“Think about it as payment for wasting my time,” he replies. “Uh uh. Don’t start crying yet,” he says when you let out a shaky whimper. “I’m not doing anything bad. Just having a feel.”

He lets go of the polaroids, but only so his hand can snake around your thigh and tug you between his legs.

You try to stay calm, focus on a spot on the wall behind him. Bob will be home soon. Bob will handle this. Bob would never let you get hurt.

“Aw, you’re shaking. You scared? You don’t need to be scared. Not of me,” he whispers, lips brushing against the swell of your breast. “I’m not scary. Just curious. What’s so special about you that he shares, huh?”

Despite the sweat clinging to your body you’re ice cold, tongue turned to lead in your mouth as he nuzzles between your breasts, sighing into them. Your silence is a neon green light, emboldening him as he places soft kisses along them before taking a nipple into his mouth.

You find your voice, albeit small and shaky.

“You said you just wanted to see. Scout’s honour.”

“I’m not a fucking Scout.” He hesitates slightly before adding, “You might be dumber than I thought. Letting a man you don’t know into your house. Taking your shirt off because he made you an empty promise.”

He latches his mouth over your nipple again, fingers digging uncomfortably into your waist. In the living room, the TV still plays, the distant sound of sitcom studio laughter echoing down the hall as he he grunts around your tit.

“My lucky day. Dumb bitch with her boyfriend out the house. Couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

You shudder, pushing at his shoulders to get him off of you. Your resistance is rewarded with a bite, quick and harsh, that stops you in your tracks.

“Quit it,” he grunts. “You wouldn’t be in this position if you didn’t want to be. Could’ve left and called your boyfriend home but you didn’t, so don’t act brand new now.”

You have nothing to say to that, because a part of you knows he’s right. That if you’d done the logical thing, you wouldn’t be in this mess.

“That’s it,” he says with a smile, switching over to the other breast. He gives it the same treatment, licking and sucking and biting while he moans into you and there’s a brief moment where he moves off of you and you think he’s done but then his fingers snake under the waistband of your bikini bottom and you jolt away, perplexed.

“That’s not what we agreed on,” you remind him, hands closed around his wrists as you pry him off. “I’ve given you more than you wanted. Give me my pictures back.”

You lean forward to reach for them, stretching past him and you’re almost there when you flips the script on you and stands up so he can push you into the mattress.

His grip is tight, the weight of him heavy as he holds you in place and despite the way you struggle you don’t budge.

His fingers find the edge of your bikini bottoms again, tracing along the edge as he presses his growing erection to the back of your thigh.

“You really thought that would be it? What am I supposed to do with this, huh,” he says grinding into you.

“Not my problem. You need to get off of me,” you kick behind you blindly, feel hope when your foot catches his thigh but he doesn’t budge.

“I’m just having a feel,” he says, finger pressing over your clothed clit.

You let an involuntary whine slip through, the heat of embarrassment blooming in your stomach.

“There we go. Now you’re being honest,” he croons.

“No. Anything else, please,” you beg.

If you offer him something worthwhile, you think you can still walk out of this with the pictures and what’s left of your dignity. “I’ll suck you off okay? Swallow and everything, please, just not that.”

He just hums, fingers working over your clit in small, tight circles as his hips rock against the back of your legs.

“Please I just want my pictures. They’re special,” you plead again.

“So you’ll let me do this then?”

He presses his fingers against your clothed slit, holding you down when you jerk away.

“My mouth. We can do that. As rough as you want,” you offer. “Not that please.”

“You keep saying you don’t want this but your pussy says otherwise,” he says, pressing his finger through the material of your bikini bottoms. “Feels like she wants this. Sure your boyfriend won’t mind. Maybe we’ll take a picture and leave it for him huh? Show him how you get around when he’s not here.”

You shake your head.

“It’s not like that. He knows. He knows about his friend,” you whimper, trying to pull away. The arm pushing you down presses harder.

“So you’re a slut with permission, then. Even better. Sure he won’t mind if I get a turn.”

“Don’t call me that,” you reply, squirming in an attempt to get him off of you. Even a little more space will do, a little relief from the press of his erection against you.

“What do you call it then? When you have a boyfriend who loves you and you fuck his friends and keep the evidence? What do you call it when you answer the door for strange men in nothing but a wet bikini and a t-shirt?”

He turns you over and when you look into his eyes you feel a chill run through you. There’s nothing behind them, and you know pleading with him is useless but you try anyway.

“Do you want them? You can keep them,” you try, head tilting towards the pictures. “It’s fine, it’s not a big deal.”

You clamp your thighs shut but he pries them open, dragging you closer to him as he settles between them.

“Seemed like a big deal when you got your tits out for me,” he purrs. He leans down so he can press a kiss to your collarbone. “Colour?”

It throws you, takes you a moment to respond but he doesn’t do anything while he waits, just rubs gently at your thighs with his thumb.

“Green,” you manage to get out. He smiles, then its gone when he buries his face back into your chest.

“Seemed like a big deal when you were offering to let me fuck your face in exchange for the pictures,” he reiterates, mockingly repeating your words back to you. You squirm, but his grip never falters. “What’s the difference between my dick down your throat and right here,” he says, slipping his fingers between your bikini bottom and your embarrassingly wet folds.

“I don’t want that. That’s the difference. It’s too far,” you reason.

“Not about what you want. You said you’d do anything, right? Anything to keep your little pictures. Might as well let me in. Your boyfriend won’t mind will he?”

“He will,” you wriggle away, manage to gain a little room before he pulls you back against him with an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t be so difficult, okay?”

He strokes your face gently, thumb lingering over the corners of your mouth. He lets his hand glide down your body, almost tender. “Just be a good girl for me. Let me see what you’ve got,” he groans as he undoes the tie on his board shorts, pushing them down just enough to free himself.

You whimper when you see him, thick and hard and leaking, waiting for you. You shake your head when he presses his tip against your clothed core.

“You think I’ll fit?”

He almost sounds curious enough to genuinely care, but the way he pushes against you lets you know one thing: he’ll make it fit.

You breathe deep try to relax, use your hands to push against him but he’s surprisingly sturdy. Before you can protest he’s pulling your bottoms to the side.

“Oh god look at her. Won’t even have to do anything,” he sighs, sliding the tip between your lips. He starts with a few testing prods, watching your face as he does, and then without warning he pushes into you, his other hand tightening on your hip to keep you in place.

“Fuck, that feels good. I’d pass you around too if I were him,” he grunts when he’s all the way in. The stretch is one you’re not prepared for, and it stings, brings tears to your eyes that you try to hide by turning your face.

“Hey, hey, don’t do that,” he says, voice soft as he stills. “Don’t do that, okay. You gotta look at me.”

You nod blinking back back the tears.

“Do I need to stop?”

You shake your head, then remember what he said about using your words.

“No. It’s okay, I just wasn’t prepared. I’m used to… I’m used to the prep,” you answer truthfully. It’s embarrassing. You’d begged him for less consideration and when he obliged, you couldn’t even take it right away.

“No, no. Just, give me a moment, please. Come here, I miss you,” you say reaching out.

“You miss me?”

“I miss you,” you answer, ghosting your lips over his when he leans down.

“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he remind you again.

“Don’t. I like you like this too,” you say. It feels better now, less pain more pressure and you squirm impatiently.

“Yeah? You like when I take?”

His grip on you tightens, and you watch something in him shift as his eyes harden again and his stare sends a shiver down your spine.

“I’ll take then,” he says, one hand on your hip and the other on your shoulder. His eyes glide down to your tits, the way they bounce as he pushes into you, still a little soft at first then harder when he’s convinced you’re okay.

You grit your teeth, try blink away the tears stinging at the corner of your eyes and stifle the whimpers bubbling out of your throat.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t cry,” he coos, his thumb wiping at the corner of your eyes. “It’s gonna feel so good, know it is. She’s already taking it so well,” he pants. “Fucking beautiful the way she swallows me up. Maybe she’s made for me instead. Maybe I’ll cancel the tow truck and just stay here,” he says, pace brutal as he finds that deliciously sweet spot inside of you.

“Not yours,” you manage to get out. He’s not interested in your protests, his thumb pressing into your mouth. He hisses when you bite down, then grabs your face, fingers digging in hard.

“Told you not to make this difficult,” he says with a hard squeeze. “All you have to do is behave,” he instructs, hand moving down to rest on your throat. “That’s all. Just behave until I’m done. Don’t make me hurt you.”

You want to point out that he’s already hurting you, that the way his fingers dig into your thigh as he holds the bikini bottoms in place is going to leave bruises, but the soft pressure of his palm on the column of your throat reminds you who’s in charge.

He moves his hand, places his index then his middle finger in your mouth, cocks an eyebrow when he feels the testing bite you give him before you relent.

“That’s it, good girl,” he coos, even as the tears spill from the corner of your eyes. “So pretty with your mouth full,” he sighs, eyelids fluttering shut as he presses his fingers into your mouth. “Should’ve taken you up on that offer,” he grunts, only stopping so he can tug at the strings on your bottoms, swatting the fabric away when the knots come undone.

He shifts so he can press his body into yours, pushing your knees into your chest as he continues fucking into you. Your pleas muffle around his fingers, but you’re losing your train of thought your body aching with a need you’re all too familiar with despite your resistance.

“Almost done, sweetheart I’m so close. See how easy it can be when you listen.”

You tug at his wrist, pulling his fingers out of your mouth.

“You need to pull out, please. Just this one thing,” you eke out, grimacing as his hands find your tits squeezing. The laugh he barks out chills you to the core, but you feel yourself clench around him and he falters.

“Don’t think I could if I wanted to, she’s squeezing so tight,” he whines. You try pushing at him, but he’s still sturdy, still relentless in his need to have all of you.

“S’okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay she wants this. Can feel her practically milking me, it’s okay.”

His fingers press down onto your clit and you buck into him. This is all the permission he needs to rub in tight circles.

“Just giving you what you want? Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You shake your head but this only seems to spur him on, until finally your body gives in, your walls spasming around him.

“Shit, I’m right there,” he pants, “can’t pull out, you understand right?”

You’re too tired to protest, and true to his word he’s not far behind you, spilling into you as he finishes, leaning down to press his forehead to yours.

You feel your heart hammering in your chest as he presses a kiss to your cheek, then your forehead.

“You okay? Everything’s fine?”

He brushes the tears off your cheeks, pulling out gently so he can roll over and pull you into his arms.

“Words, please,” he asks, when all you do is nod.

“Yeah, Bob. I’m good. I’m perfect,” you giggle.

“Need anything?”

“A bath would be nice. You guys have such a nice bath tub,” you yawn.

He’s up and running it before you can even put it together, gently guiding you into the tub. It’s steamy, and the water is just the right amount of warm as you slide in sighing. He waits on the side, hair damp with sweat, face flushed and eyes bright as he watches you relax.

“Get in with me. I miss you,” you say, sitting up.

“It’s your bath. I don’t wanna crowd you,” he hums.

“It’s big enough for both of us, get in,” you insist and he listens this time, stripping down and sliding in behind you. You let him kiss you, gentle along the nape of your neck as he squeezes you.

“You okay?” you finally ask, when you feel yourself settle.

“Of course I’m okay, I’m not the one—”

“I know that Bob. But I know it also felt… weird for you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I liked it. I like you a little scared, you were so good for me,” he responds, pressing a kiss into the crook of your neck. “I’ll need some time before we do that again,” he whispers. “I liked it, but I need time. Wanna be soft with you again. I love you.”

“Of course, honey. We don’t ever have to do it again if you don’t want–”

“Didn’t say anything about never doing it again. Just need a little break,” he assures you, pressing his face further into the crook of your neck. It’s comforting to have him there, pressed into you after the afternoon you’ve had. “I love you,” he repeats, over and over as his fingers drum on your hips.

“Love you too,” you sigh, your hand coming down over his so you can slot your fingers between his.

“We should probably hurry, before the water cools down,” Bob says, even though he makes no move to hurry.

You were sure he was going to chuckle at your desperation. You thought he might make some crude comment on how easily you had gotten down on your knees for him, tongue out with saliva pooling on the surface. He didn't. Cameron slapped his cock down onto your tongue with a lewd, wet smack that had him swallowing thickly at the sight. His flushed tip was drooling with beads of pre-cum, resting on the base of your tongue that accepted the heavy weight. There was a heavy and warm drift with every panting breath from you. Cameron could've blown his load from the sight alone. He took in a shuddering breath, rubbing at your jaw carefully and staring as if mesmerised by it all. "So fucking pretty," he spoke so softly that it left you unsure if he was saying it to you or to himself.

Shifting on your knees that were bound to be decorated in watercolour bruises in the following days, you sat up a little higher for better control and movement. You wrapped your hand gently around the base of his cock, feeling a thick vein pulse beneath your touch, while closing your mouth around his flushed tip. You swirled your tongue against the seam to collect the salty beads. Giving him one long, slow pump while sucking softly on his tip, you pulled a shallow whimper from Cameron. You watched him. You couldn't look away. He already had the expression of someone wrecked by their own undoing; his mouth was parted slightly, breathing in soft bursts, his cheeks flushed, and head tipping forward with his eyes closed. He looked pathetic in the best way possible.

Softly, your hand shifted on the base of him, knocking against your lips with every drag towards yourself. There was a slight wetness against your palm where he had smeared his own spit to make it slick. It made it easier to stroke him. You ran your tongue across his tip to taste him one last time. Your grip was gentle, but still firm, and your mouth moved further to take him in while your tongue laid flat beneath the underside of his cock.

"That's it... Nice and gentle." His words sparked something in you, encouragement coaxing you to move both hands to grip the back of his thighs, digging into the dark denim. "Oh fuck, yeah? You're going to take it like that?" His thumb pressed harder and his fingers curled under your jaw for purchase, guiding you closer until your nose was pressed into the soft trail of hair above the base of him. Your mouth was stuffed with him, inhaling through your nose slowly while rolling in a forward motion until the drooling tip was nudging against the back of your throat with every thrust.

You kept staring up at him, analysing how his face scrunched up in pleasure every time there was a distinct attempt at swallowing the over-produced saliva in your mouth. It was drooling down your chin, escaping with every slow drag of your mouth. It ached. Your jaw felt like it was going to unhinge, especially when it started to feel less of a thing you were doing for him and more something he was using you for. He guided you back and forth, a rocking motion of frantic desire that had him choking on half-hearted moans. Pleasure was surfing through his every nerve, pooling at the base of his spine, his balls tensing with anticipation, and building at a dizzying speed. "Fuck. I'm gonna..." Cameron's voice broke off with a shallow inhale, his hand falling upon your shoulder and leaning as if it was the only thing holding him up. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

You sat up a little higher, leaning up further as he stuttered with shallow inhales, eyes squeezing shut and roughly jolting your head back and forth to take him. He twitched against the roof of your mouth, flicking firmly as a thick liquid spurted from his tip towards the back of your throat. It was salty, not as disgusting as you had envisioned, and pooled down the back of your throat without any influence. He groaned, loud and fragile, and held you in place as he shot his load down the back of your throat in warm spurts. His hips jolted, uncontrolled while being stuck by pleasure.

You closely heel Bob’s rushed steps, heels sharply hitting the marble floor in clicking sounds as he keeps looking back and forth between where he’s leading you and back at you to make sure you’re following him – you’ve never seen him so hasty, acting so enigmatic.

You rush through corridors you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to cross, see luxurious things that make you remember it’s such a strange life you’re living to be attending parties like this.

“Bob, I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to roam around these areas” you note, looking back around to make sure no one is suspecting you of doing anything shady. “Where are we going?” you ask once again, growing impatient from the lack of response, but from the way Bob looks around at every turn there is to take, he doesn’t seem quite sure where you’re going either – until his face lights up when he glances at one piece of the paneling on the wall.

“C’mon,” he urges you, motioning for you to come forward when he somehow gets the wall to open – the panel quite effectively hiding and opening to an old service closet, but as it turns out not hiding it well enough for Bob to not notice it. “Get inside” he tilts his head after quickly evaluating the space. “Quick”

You do so without a word, a confused frown etched over your face, and he slips in the cramped space behind you, letting out a heavy sigh once you’re both in there, hidden from anyone. It’s tight in here, forcing you to stand close to each other, shelves restraining space for movement.

“What's up with you?” you ask, arms crossing once making sure he’s not stepping over your dress. 

The faint security light above your heads grants you vision of his figure, and your face hardens when you notice him swallowing with difficulty before his head shakes slightly. 

“The public doesn’t know we’re together and not being able to let alone hold your hand for comfort drives me insane” he explains, emphasizing on the last word, teeth clenched. He reaches and slides his hands into yours, lightly fidgeting with them. “You know I get anxious in public settings.” 

There’s a vulnerable edge to his voice, an helpless look in his eyes as he explains himself, and you nod and squeeze his hands in reassurance, letting your thumb gently rub back and forth over them.

You give him a compassionate smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your ears. “Well I know it’d be easier if Valentina let us get the word out, but you know she’s obsessed about you being the people’s golden boy in every sense of the word” you shrug lightly, giving him a small smile. “People like you. You would break a few hearts if we went public” you hear him scoff a laugh before you press yourself close to him, head resting against his chest. His arm instinctively wraps around you, and he lets out a small sigh of relief now that there isn’t so much noise anymore. 

“And I would probably become public enemy number one” you say, voice slightly muffled from your cheek being squished against him.

“You know I don’t mean to be rude to those people but,” he pauses and you can hear the beating of his heart when his voice quietens. “I don’t want us to hide forever” he shrugs, brows gently furrowing.

“I know,” a soft sigh escapes you. “I’ll talk to her. These PR things are so irritating” you murmur.

He hums in agreement, his hand trailing up your back to rest at your shoulder and bring you closer to him. Your eyes close when Bob kisses the top of your head, and you lean further into him. 

“I think you’re wrong, about the public enemy number one thing,” he mutters, voice low as his mouth is pressed against you. “Yelena says she thinks people would be rooting for us”

You snort an honest laugh, kind of digging the idea. Of not being demonized for the things that you do for once. 

You would have to get Valentina to the idea that a couple within the team of New Avengers might actually be a good thing for your global image, as shallow and scoop-driven as the idea seems to be. 

It is so hard to convince people that you would take anything that would brighten your image as a group just a little and make you seem legitimate.

You remain quiet as you hug him close, staying pressed to him until his breathing evens out, until you notice the lines of his face are more relaxed, his jaw not clenched in tenseness anymore when you look back to him. 

And it’s only then that you come to reevaluate the whole situation, stepping back. 

You’re inside a closet, dressed in expensive clothes, in a fancy building that is currently hosting a charity gala, trying to ease your boyfriend’s anxiety. 

Nothing about this life makes sense.

“Why’d you have to get us inside a closet,” you chuckle, making Bob smile when you brush back a strand of his hair. He’d tried making it look less messy than usual, but that failed attempt was more endearing than anything. You would have to admit there’s something in the way he looks so proper in those clothes, so unusual and out of place yet so strangely right. “We could have just hung outside in a corner of the building or something, even in an empty corridor” you add.

“I don’t know, I kinda just… panicked” he shrugs. “Seemed like the best option at the moment” he says, pinching his lips into an awkward, sweet smile.

You reciprocate his smile before you lean in and kiss him, deep and unhurried. You know you won’t be able to do it again once you step out of that closet, so you take your time with it, fingers clutching the collar of his shirt, gently pulling him down to you as his hands tentatively settle at your waist.

Everything feels slower than the whole other world outside of this closet, rushed and superficial, and for the first time tonight, you take the time to truly breathe, not needing to overthink each and every of your actions and movements, knowing each of those could say something about you, could have people say things about you.

But at that very moment, you can’t seem to care anymore.

And it seems like Bob doesn’t either – he chases after your lips and kisses you back when you break away, pulling you closer when his hands rest at your hips, quietly humming into your mouth.

You can feel his chest lifting under your palm, can see his breathing has hardened after his lips leave yours, and you can, most of all, feel the very insistent, very obvious bulge of his hard on in his tailored pants when you shift just slightly against him.

“Bob…” you murmur, still feeling the warmth of his breath against your mouth. “Really?” your voice is laced with a light playfulness and genuine stupefaction. His face grows warm, but it’s unrelated to the temperature of the cramped space, and the faint tint of his flush is just a few shades lighter than the smudged lipstick marks you’ve left on his lips from kissing. 

He lightly clears his throat, looking down between the both of you, forehead pressed to yours. “Sorry” he smiles, voice choking on itself a bit. “The room is tight and you look so hot in that goddamn dress” he admits. “Can’t help it.” When he looks back up at you, the grin over his face might be slight but is far from innocent, and you’re suddenly more aware of his hands against your body, your face warm and flushed from his compliment, and your frown shifts to something else. 

“That was your plan all along, huh” you scoff plainly as your face twists into a grimace that Bob can’t quite decipher, your hands sliding from his chest to rest at the sides of his neck.

His mouth gapes before a chuckle escapes, his eyes closing when he stammers slightly. “No, oh no I swear– it wasn’t.” his head shakes, voice slightly wavering in haste. 

His expression shifts to an earnest raise of his eyebrows as his hands progressively slide up along the sides of your body. “...But I can’t say I didn’t think about it those last few minutes” 

“Oh, alright” you nod, biting your lip thoughtfully before you exhale softly. “Well… I would give you head but my knees hurt so bad because of the heels somehow.” you say, giving him an apologetic pinch of your lips. 

“God, don’t say stuff like this so casually” he accuses with a shake of his head like it physically pains him. “It makes me want you so bad”

He’s onto you after not much afterthought, his mouth against yours, his tall frame pressed up against you, hand cupping the back of your head so it doesn’t hit the wall when he backs you up against it. It doesn’t do much considering how narrow the room is – if you can even call it a room – making the action impossible to be that rough anyways. But it remains gentle in its own way, hungry in its own way. 

The room feels stifling with every brush of his lips against yours, with the low sounds he lets slip when he can taste the faint long lost savor of cocktail on your tongue as he kisses you.

He licks his lips when he pulls apart, the back of his knuckles lightly brushing along the side of your face before his cheek gets there. “I can be the one to get on my knees” he murmurs into your ear teasingly, voice so low and warm it makes your breath hitch. 

“What about–”

“It’s not about me,” Bob counters, the press of his lower body against yours saying otherwise. He groans when you let it be known, when your thigh conveniently happens to ever so slightly brush against the bulge of his pants.

“I’ll fuck you afterwards. I can hold you up” he nods. He halts and his mouth gapes slightly as his expression softens, and you press the tip of your fingers against his mouth before he can talk and inevitably add something along the lines of “if that’s alright with you”, which it is, always is when he talks like this, when he confidently uses such words to describe what he wants to do to you.

“You’re nasty. It kinda is about you”

Bob gives you a derisive look, eyebrows lifting. “Well, y’know, if you’d rather go back there and hang out with those snobs I’m not holding you back,” he says in a sarcastic whisper as he points his thumb back.

You shake your head and your arms wrap around his neck when you press your mouth to his again, and you feel his lips quirk into a smile against your own before you’re distracted by the way his hand pushes against your lower back to bring you closer to him, pressing you back against the wall.

You feel the sneaky graze of his fingers against your thigh when his hand pinches your dress, hiking it up and lifting the fabric enough so he can slip his hand underneath, the tip of his fingers lightly brushing against the skin of your stomach before they dip under the thin material of your underwear.

“God,” he groans, nuzzling along your face. “Please, please let me do this” he begs like you’re not already clutching onto his shoulder when his fingers slide through the mess he’s made of you just from a little kissing and grinding.

“Do it like this,” you command. “Don't get on your knees, you'll get your pants dirty”

He hums in agreement, low into your ear as his fingers rub through the wetness that pools between your legs. “How long do you think we have before someone notices we’re missing?” he breathes into your neck, warm and needy before kissing there.

“I don’t really care about anyone noticing we’re not part of their pretentious gathering” you huff out, only half joking. “Certainly not when your hand is in my panties, Bob”

He snorts a small laugh and nods, clutching harder where his other hand rests at the side of your body. “I guess that’s fair” he mutters, leaving a kiss at your temple, smiling when your breath catches in a choked sound when his fingers slowly slide through the slick of your folds again, savoring the way your chest heaves and your breathing gets harder as he goes on and lets his fingers linger at your clit. 

The cramped closet suddenly feels even smaller, the temperature higher, the concept of time completely discarded, strangely rushed and frozen at the same time.

Bob’s heart rate is even higher than it had been when anxiety induced, particularly spiking when you pull him closer by letting your fingers hook in the belt loops of his slacks. His gaze drops where you hurriedly unfasten his belt, fingers messily working at the buttons like you're running out of time.

“You really thought I’d leave you hanging?” you ask, a grin tugging at your lips when his eyes meet yours again, one that he chases away when his tongue slips into your mouth again, hungrily tasting you. 

When your fingers close around his cock, his hand halts where it rubs at your pussy, a groan muffled by your mouth against his, breath scattered, his other hand that was gripping your side moving to anchor against the wall behind you.

“Ah fuck, your–” his words die in his throat when he tries to buck into your fist as you start to stroke him slowly, languidly, setting a maddening gentle pace. 

His forehead rests against the rough surface of the wall, gaze absorbed down to where your hands mutually work, his own hand twisting to gently work a finger inside you using the same pace you're using on him despite the ache that is slowly starting to grow on his wrist. His breath is increasingly getting more thick and ragged, face growing warmer when your face nestles into his neck to kiss along the length of his throat, your hand working his cock in long, deliberate pulls, slightly twisting on each upward stroke.

You can feel your legs getting weaker as he pumps his finger in and out of you, reaching the spot that makes the pain in your knees into a soft ache – your free hand grabs onto his bicep and you bite back any sound when he briefly pulls out and adds another finger, fucking inside you in a rhythm that makes you slowly start to crumble under his touch – it's messier than it could be in any other steadier circumstances, maybe more desperate; it's harder to tell when he's more or less always desperate, his ragged pants into your ear only driving you closer, only making the strokes of your own hand around his cock more hurried.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this” Bob breathes out, muscles of his arm tensing under your fingers, hips desperately jerking into the enclosure of your hand, chasing your movements. 

“It’s all you” you blame, nose nudging the straining, flushed skin of his neck. “You love it”

A huffed laugh vibrates from his throat. “Yeah, I do” he admits with a tilt of his head, his eyelids fluttering shut, squeezing when he eventually starts to feel it, starts to feel that warmth spreading and pooling low in his stomach – his own free hand grips back at you, unsure where to settle for good before he decides on letting it rest at your waist again, squeezing at your flesh when your thumb maddeningly brushes against the throbbing tip of his cock. “I can’t– I won’t be able to hold it too long” he warns, voice low and wrecked into the shell of your ear, biting back a moan.

“That’s okay” you murmur where your mouth is still warm against his neck, pressing a kiss under his ear. “I’m not asking you to. We can’t draw this out”

Despite pretending not to care about how much time you spend in there, you both know you can't be gone too long, that it can't be noticed that you have both mysteriously disappeared from the crowd, nowhere to be found. Someone will eventually draw conclusions if you remain absent – conclusions that will undeniably be true – but you can't risk letting it happen.

So the soft touches grow more impatient, sweat gathering at your brows from the stifling air of the room, hands frustratingly tiring from being stuck under layers of clothes, wrists held in uncomfortable angles. Bob hangs onto you like he will crumble if he doesn’t, fingers frantically pumping into you, maintaining that same eager rhythm when the back of your head hits the wall behind you in a hollow sound, chest heaving as a quiet keen escapes from your mouth when he reaches deep inside of you. 

The smug grin he bites onto his bottom lip quickly fades when his brows furrow in focus, his restraint faltering as he begins to shatter under your touch, the strokes of your hand fully intent on making him come now. 

“Please tell me you’re close, I can’t–” he blurts almost unintelligibly, a muttered curse word interrupting his own sentence, all speech coherence lost somewhere outside of this room.

You nod frenetically, trying to keep up with the same rhythm despite feeling your heartbeat catch, blood overwhelmingly pumping into your brain and down south. His thumb seeks out your clit, drawing messy circles, using his last bit of clarity to do it right by you.

He still breaks before you do. You get the reflex of pressing your hand over his mouth – you have no idea how soundproof this closet is, and while that corridor didn’t seem that busy, it would be really, really fucking embarrassing for either of you to be found in that position.

The sound he lets out is reduced to a muffled whimper, the heavy breathing through his nose loud into your ear when you work him through it, his jaw hanging open in ragged breaths when your hand leaves his mouth. The weight of his body presses against your own as his hips sloppily rock as close to you as they can as he spills into your hand, warm and messy, a slight tremble coursing through him as he comes, brokenly thanking you in quiet exhales, a few times over again.

He’s nowhere near letting up once his orgasm subsides, the movement of his fingers inside you still unwavering, and you don't need much left before it comes for you either, even less when he tells you how pretty you look pressed against that wall.

His teeth lightly graze at the skin under your ear as he desperately begs you to come too, and he knows he's hit it as your thighs begin to tremble, your hand clutching the back of his head so hard he whimpers into your mouth as he kisses you.

His fingers dig hard into your waist as your walls tighten around those buried inside your pussy, softly gasping into his mouth when you break and come over his fingers, hand tightly clutching his hair and pulling at the roots.

His forehead falls against yours, hand traveling up your side to brush your hair back as you go limp under his touch, gently guiding you down the slope of your climax, fingers easing out of you once he’s sure it has fully washed off. Your eyes fall shut, head tilting back against the wall, gently for the first time since you entered that closet. Heavy pants guide the rising and falling of your chest, hand finally easing your grip onto Bob’s hair when he leaves one last kiss at your cheek. “Sorry if I pulled too hard” 

“You know I don’t mind” he grins, softly grimacing at your apology, implying more. 

You snort an honest laugh, one that gradually fades as you eventually come back to your senses and realize your other hand is still pretty much buried in Bob’s underwear, coated in his release, and that you’re inside a closet when you should both be with the rest of your team playing pretend because you can’t hide in here forever. “Fuck, we have to clean up and get out of here”

Bob’s eyes light up with a renewed sense of urgency, hastily fishing into the pocket of his pants. “Oh, you’re so lucky I picked up some napkins with the appetizers,” he nods, handing you one.

You both make quick work of thoroughly cleaning your hands, though a quick visit to the bathroom will be much needed anyway – Bob wraps your used napkins into a clean one, a look of mixed disgust and amusement over his face when he shoves it in his pocket.

You smooth over the ruffles of your dress, watching as he buttons his pants and buckles his belt, and it's only when he glances back up at you and the security light hits his face that you realize the mess of smudged lipstick marks you’ve left on him, his eyebrows lifting in an innocent look of confusion when you repress a small laugh. 

“What?”

“You look like you lost a fight” you say, snorting a laugh. “Let me just,” his eyes flutter shut as you rub the worst of the lipstick stains off his face and neck with careful strokes. The smudge at his mouth is trickier, heat rising to your face again when his lips part slightly under your fingers, his gaze closely following your movements.

He stays still when you put his collar back into place, chuckling when your fingers run through his hair to try to make it look presentable again. “All good.”

“Thanks,” he grins, hand reaching for yours to hold it. “I do feel better”

A small laugh slips out of you, and you quickly lovingly rub your thumb against his cheek. “After all that, I hope so.”

Just like your bubble just burst, you suddenly become aware of the reality you will have to settle back in once you leave that closet – you lightly clear your throat, bracing yourself for the moment you will have to step foot into false pretenses again. Your free hand reaches to push the panel to the closet open with an exhale, but Bob softly squeezes your hand before you can.

“Hey.” he calls softly. His chest presses to your back as he steps in, arms wrapping around you, chin coming to rest over your shoulder like he needs to settle a moment longer before you leave the cramped space, just one more minute of borrowed time. “I know we have to go back, but I meant what I said earlier”

“About what?”

His face nestles into the crook of your neck, and you feel a smirk drawing against your skin before he even speaks. “...About not being done with you yet” he murmurs, arms squeezing tighter around you. “I mean– Later” he corrects, tone more serious. “When we have a whole room to ourselves. And time to do it properly”

Your eyes close when you repress a chuckle, turning your head just enough so that your temple grazes his, your voice barely more than breath. “Then you’d better behave out there.”

A faint huff warms your neck. “I’ll try” he declares, everything in his tone indicating that he means it. He frees you from his hold and reluctantly lets you step forward, knowing you unfortunately can’t stay like this forever. And it’s a good thing somehow, because the heat of the tiny room is slowly starting to get to him. 

His fingers linger over yours when they brush at your side before he lets go, a wave of fresh air hitting your faces when you step outside the closet into the empty corridor – your demeanor may have changed now that you walk back into the crowd, but the challenged expression over Bob’s face doesn’t disappear in the slightest when your gazes meet from far away for the rest of the night.

—

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a/n: helloo! today it's my birthday 🎈that's why this story is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. I apologize but the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip (I’m not going to be very active for a while). I was too exhausted to write/edit something more plot-driven, so I hope you’ll enjoy this anyway 💛

Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted. 

Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes scream do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.

Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend's body has been betraying him for a while— knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.

Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.

Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.

The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park— technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes— to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor.

The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is firm, deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.

When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.

The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”

“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.

Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere." 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”

He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.

“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.

“Hm-hm.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”

Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms.

“You’re freezing, doll.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”

You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.” 

“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”

You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”

He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”

“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.

“Still... She looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.

“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”

“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.

“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”

“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn't miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… Just wanted to get a head start.”

He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”

You sigh. “Buck—”

“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”

You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame.

Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”

You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes– yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.

He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile. 

You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams. 

Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint.

Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning.

Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice– the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another.

Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech– the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work.

Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, checking in quietly, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you.

Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along. 

Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… You smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing.

Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.

But sometimes… Sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own is empty, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done. You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.

And Bucky wants— selfishly, desperately— to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.

With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.

With him, you don’t need to think ahead.

He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.

You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to. He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It bleeds. It calls for you. It moves through him like something alive and restless that needs to breath.

Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder.

Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up. 

Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.

He only knows there’s never been an end.

Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.

You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him– and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.

Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.

You have never kissed him on the lips, though.

Bucky thinks about that more than he should.

He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.

He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.

He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.

Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.

He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.

Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.

And sometimes... It’s just unbearable.

You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It's just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little smile of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.

The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.

Bucky has imagined telling you.

It never gets far.

In his head, the words sound steady, confident. 

But you’d blink, go quiet… Look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.

So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses– Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.

From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace.

Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie– you are the only one allowed to do that. 

You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.

So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs; it sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class; it blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.

He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you're both left wheezing. With Bucky, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it.

He has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.

Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.

But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.

Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile impossibly more, the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.

“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.

“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”

Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.” Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.

“James seriously, I have to finish—”

“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter. “You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”

You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.

“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”

Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.

“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.

And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.

Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”

“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his soft attention.

“I know. I know, bunny.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… Irresistible when you let yourself go.”

“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.

You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way. 

“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”

You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”

“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.

“They look at you.”

“They look at everyone.”

“Not like they look at you, baby.”

There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.

“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the next hour. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at him.

“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.

You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.” 

You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway, sighing. 

“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.

You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.

He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head. 

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good– too good.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer. You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this— he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.

Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.

“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, hm?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”

You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.

“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.

“Careful.” You snicker.

“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”

“You almost tripped over the air.”

“Well, the air started it.”

He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual. 

“There,” he hums. “Contained.”

His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”

You go rigid at that. “James.”

“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.

“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s almost three hours long.”

“It’s cinema.”

“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky. You pulled out a fucking notebook.”

He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”

“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”

“You loved it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”

He gasps softly. “How dare you!”

You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”

At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.

“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you've already watched, and rated with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”

“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes–”

“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.

“Fine, bunny.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”

“You cried during the docking scene.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s an incredible scene.”

After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so it doesn’t dig into you, then shifts again so you’re draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.

“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.

“Hm.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”

“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”

Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.

Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... Just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.

When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.

“Still cold?”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You shivered.”

“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.

You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs— soft and low— then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”

Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can't help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds.

He lets it go on longer than he should.

His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.

“What is it?”

“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.

“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”

At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud. “I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”

His jaw tightens.

“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You've already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”

“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”

Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.

“I can help you.”

The words leave him before he can fully consider them.

You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Why–”

“You have your own stuff to do–”

Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant I can help you not think about it.”

You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”

That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin. 

His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and hot, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet little pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the most wicked of dreams. It was of you, of your mouth, of your skin. He was touching and kissing you everywhere. His sheets were drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sunrays split through the curtains to hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He tried jerking off in the shower, but the ache is always there, challenging him.

His eyes close briefly.

This is not the time.

But the truth is sitting at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.

“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”

“Like what?”

His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can't believe he's really going to say it.

“I just–” He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… Sex?”

It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and let it fall between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.

You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback. 

“I didn’t mean it like–” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a–” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”

You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.

“I just meant,” he tries again, slower now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… Physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re– We’ve always been– I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically twice, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… Us.”

The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.

“It’s been a long time.” You admit suddenly.

He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.

“What?”

You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.

“Since... The last time I had sex.”

His stomach drops.

“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.

You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”

The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.

His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”

You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... Years ago.”

You swallow. “I know.”

“You haven’t–” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.

You shake your head once, biting your bottom lip.

His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.

But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.

“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… Sex would help.”

He swallows, nodding once. “It might.”

You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”

It’s not a question.

Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.

“Recently?” You perk up.

He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”

You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.

“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or– or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”

Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.

“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.

“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”

“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You are everything to me too.” 

The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes– too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit– catch that instantly.

“Are you suggesting we try?” You ask, almost daring him.

Bucky hesitates— not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer.

“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t– I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just–” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”

Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… Anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.

Just a clean slate of neutrality.

The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.

Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.

“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Even the pet name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now. 

She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently. She’s figuring out if this will change things between you two. She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it. She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.

Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I–”

“James.”

He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.

“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it–”

His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.

You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.

Your sigh sounds like it's been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”

His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.

“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”

You hold his gaze. “And then?”

“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”

You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.

“I won’t hate it.”

That confidence nearly unravels him.

“So… Can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.

At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. His thumb brushes along your jaw, gentle, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment in his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.

You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that tiny motion nearly stops his heart.

Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact– a question posed in motion. It's the gentlest of kisses that is meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest.

Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes brushing his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.

His other hand reaches your waist, tentative at first, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.

Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust, the closeness. And your hair is caught under his fingers as he tilts your head slightly to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this– this closeness, this softness, this moment– is real.

Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.

Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing.

“You’re incredible.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Just… Gorgeous.”

Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. He tilts his head, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours like he is trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding together the pieces of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs.

His hands finally gather the courage to move, like you belong to each other. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.

“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.

“I’m–” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... To come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.”

Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your heartbeat jump. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”

“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question. 

“What do you do when you’re alone, baby girl?”

“I have… Toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.

“Show me.” 

“You–You want to watch me while I… ?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.

His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”

“But–”

Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t trust him, elicits a boyish laugh out of him.

“Then let me help you.”

There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.

“Where are they?”

“Uhm, second drawer of the nightstand.”

Once the box is opened, Bucky's mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow.

His brain stops. Just… Fully refuses to work.

It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach. 

A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too... 

Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.

But it’s yours.

And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his–

And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… Disrespectful.

“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?”

“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if ashamed. “Yes, sweetheart. I'm sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.

“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves.

You nod, certain but coyly.

Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a kiss on the corner of your mouth first, gently.

“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.

He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.

“What about here, hm?”

You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.

His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.

“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.

Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.

“Here?”

You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw.

“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”

That only makes it worse.

You shake your head slightly, embarrassed, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond.

“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want to let me hear your sweet sounds?”

He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.

“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.

Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.

“Hm, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, yet Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.

“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.

“Careful, sweetheart.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… In a way you won’t forget.”

Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.

“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.

“And here?”

A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.

“And what about here, angel?”

Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.

His lips... Kissing your clothed pussy.

Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.

“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.

“The toys.”

“It–It depends if–” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood– Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.

“Hm?” He barely acknowledges you.

“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.

“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two. Your lips purse in contemplation, and Bucky can’t resist leaning forward for another quick peck, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.

Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile lingering on his lips to kiss you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager tangle.

“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for. 

“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”

Oh.

You feel your eyes widen, jaw going sack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your bundle of nerves. Your slick seeps through and turns the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.

Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs. 

“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky shoots his head up, clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo, slipping it between your legs. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent bedroom.

You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at a faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you give the sensation a short moment of consideration before pressing the button again. 

“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit. “Can I–” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could bust right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always. 

“Ah– yes, yes please!” You shiver, eyes falling shut.

“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift impatiently. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, dark eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.

“Open your eyes, baby. C’mon.”

The reminder is gentle but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him. 

“That's it. Good girl.” That proud look takes over his face again, the praise eliciting a whimper out of you before you can stop it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions.

It just feels so right.

Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindfolded into the pleasure. 

“Bet that feels so good, right?”

Your eyes drift over him, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the line of his nose, the sweep of his shoulders, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly real. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. The subtle tension in his hands as they hold you, claim you, memorize you, are a wordless testament of the raw intensity that runs through his veins, leaving your body taut and starving for more. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, and the pull in your chest finally bursts, and you can only surrender to its force.

“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting at the sensations traveling from your core and spreading through your veins like electricity.

“Say it again. My name.” His voice is commanding though you can see his throat bobbing shakily.

“Bucky.” You moan, raw and clear this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.

You want to be his good girl. You want him to be proud of you. You want him.

Your pussy clenches and aches for release, the vibrations are cruel, causing your mind to go rogue and indulging in fantasies of Bucky ordering you to come rather than just watch it happen passively. 

“Why don’t you take it off your clit for me and fuck that sweet pussy now?”

You twitch, aching desperately with the need to put the toy back, to force yourself over the edge against his order, yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding the dildo inside your soaking core.

This is what you need. To be full, to be fucked. The stretch feels perfect, almost as though it belongs inside you.

“Shit, look at you taking it so good.”

You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.” 

“Love when you say my name like that.” He grits out almost to himself, exhaling harshly. “Faster, baby, c’mon.” 

You follow his order, thrusting harder, faster, your eyes rolling back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation. 

“Good girl.”

You are a good girl. His good girl.

Just as you’re in the midst of exploring and pleasuring your own body, you experience the added sensation of Bucky’s hands– vast, warm, so familiar yet new as they explore your sides. They glide under your sweater, up and up, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.

“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as his gaze locks with your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down. 

His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, teasing his way down your body, leaving soft pecks that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs expertly brush your nipples, taking his time, indulging in every little moan and restrained gasp. Bucky plants two kisses on the swell of your breasts, then focuses on your already hard peaks. Both nipples receive the softest of nibbles and sweet suckles, the tip of his tongue playfully flicking them only to suck harder. 

“Such pretty tits. Why were you hiding them from me, doll hm?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up. 

“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw to spit on your tongue. “Swallow.”

Gasping, you quickly follow his instruction, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. “Beautiful.”

“Bucky please.”

His answers is instant, attentive. “Please what? Talk to me baby, what do you want?”

It takes you a few tries to let the words out, arousal and embarrassment making it difficult to string a proper sentence together. “I want– fuck– I want you.” You eventually stammer. 

The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your core. “Good girl, sweetheart. I’m proud of you. Fuck that pretty pussy nice and hard for me and you’ll have me.”

You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you. 

Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs spreading impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That's it. Does it feel good to fill that pussy for me?”

For him. He has such a filthy mouth and it spurs you on even more. Covered in a sheen of sweat, you manage to answer him through the fog in your brain. “So good.” 

His grin is something dirtily mocking. “It's been a long time since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my baby needs my cock to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”

Overwhelmed, something breaks inside of you and you’re unable to hold anything back. With a raw moan you almost sob in frustration. “Please. Bucky please fuck me, need it so bad!”

His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form, steady and safe, as you clench and ache and yearn. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”

Yes, yes! That’s what you need!

Nodding enthusiastically, you chase the climax that you’ve been greedily anticipating, only to realize it’s not going to happen like this. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, the pleasurable torture feels more like a cruel punishment, and you can’t help the dejected whimper that escapes your throat. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.

“Bucky.” You wail, his voice is not enough anymore.

He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress, the warmth of his skin on yours settling your rapidly unravelling nerves. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me”

“I need– can I touch it, please?”

Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit, can you?”

“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I–I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His eyes widen, Adam's apple bobbing, and his whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”

You quickly swat your hand against yourself, glancing up at him to find him frozen, staring at your bare pussy, wet and shiny. You repeat the action, squeaking. “Like this.” 

His nostrils flare, tongue licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into his coveted prey. “Sweet girl, you like getting your little pussy slapped?”

At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.

“Then slap it for me, princess.”

Fiercely determined to show him and thankful for finally getting some stimulation on your clit, you swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp slap. The shock of the impact makes your body lurch, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.

“Fuck!” Your pussy is so hot and tender with the amount of attention it has been receiving from both you and Bucky, but the slap is a welcome change in sensation, spurring you closer to that final edge. Sliding the dildo back inside, you feel delirious with lust.

“Again.” 

You strike your flesh harder this time, gasping at the delicious sting. The friction on your clit brings you dangerously close to your climax as you keep alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks. You’re not so sure you’d be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you to do it. 

Humming thoughtfully, his cock hot and throbbing, still trapped in the confines of his wet underwear, Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery. 

“Maybe one day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pretty pussy.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His hand squish your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?”

“Please.” Maybe if he let you, you could come from slapping your pussy now. The thought of orgasming from something so depraved renews that spark of embarrassment, only serving to drive you deeper into this maddening lust.

“So fucking polite.” He growls. “Again.”

Your body jerks violently as the pain ricochets through your whole being. It feels so overwhelmingly good, every nerve alive and sore, tortured by this endless, pulsing arousal.

Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “Bucky please! ’M so close.”

Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “I know, princess. I know. One more thing and then I’ll let you come, okay?” You nod weakly, sniffling. “You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart.”

You sob then, so broken and sensitive you aren’t sure how much more you can take.

His velvety voice rumbles against your neck. “Take the dildo out and turn it off for me.”

“But–” Bucky wants to punch himself in the nose at the look of pure misery on your face.

“Do you trust me, darling?” Humming dejected, your hand trembles as you whine at the loss, your hole clenching around nothing. 

“Good girl. Breathe with me.”

You pull in some deep breaths, his hand flattening yours against his chest to follow his lead. Of course he wouldn’t leave you like this, and trying to fight off the fog clouding your brain, you wonder if he’s going to fuck you finally.

“Show me the toy.”

You balk at his request, somehow more self-conscious about this than the fact that you’ve been masturbating in front of your best friend for God knows how long.

Hesitant, you lift the damp dildo, and Bucky leans forward to inspect it.

“It’s soaked with your sweet pussy juice, doll.”

A surge of arousal boils in your veins at his words, prompting you to cover your face with your free hand, but Bucky promptly catches your wrist, gently bringing it back to its previous place.

“No need to be embarrassed, sweetheart. Take a look, you did so good for me.”

It’s not much of a surprise to you to find the dildo glistening, yet you bite your bottom lip out of mortification. The thing is, seeing the proof of your raging arousal standing proudly between you two shouldn’t make you leak so much. 

Bucky smiles, before guiding you into an open-mouth kiss with a hand on your nape. “Look at you. You're so fucking gone, aren’t you?” He blabbers against your lips. “Beautiful… So, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”

As you nod enthusiastically, still completely spaced out, he nods along with you. “Yeah, I know you do. C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”

Turning the dildo back on, you notice that your wrist is a little sore, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to stop now.

“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you start rubbing the toy around your nub, the sensation taking you higher and higher as the room is soon being filled with your lewd sounds. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors. 

Bucky diverts your attention before you can get carried away, still cupping your cheeks and hovering over your lips. “Don’t you dare come without my permission, baby girl. I want to know when you’re close, alright?”

While your initial thought is to complain about having to wait a little longer, you bite your tongue and decide to not challenge his patience. The thought of being so obedient for him is too tantalizing to resist, so you do your best to hold back as each vibration hurls you towards your imminent climax.

“Fuck! I’m so close– Bucky please make me come. I can't– fuck.”

“Let go, doll. C’mon, you have been such a good girl for me. Soak it for me, make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”

The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps, his words forcing you over the edge and into pure oblivion. Electricity courses through your veins and your poor, abused pussy throbs and clenches, your whole body shuddering uncontrollably. You are on your knees, at your pleasure’s mercy, from your trembling thighs to the noises shamelessly falling from your parted lips. You’re barely able to register Bucky talking you through it, with you every step of the way. 

“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect. Fuck, I want to keep you. Please let me keep you, angel. Love you so damn much.”

You have never had such an intense orgasm in your entire life, its power taking the breath from your lungs and leaving you floundering for some kind of stability.

“Deep breaths, honey, c’mon.”

Feeling entirely too sensitive now, you quickly yank the vibrator away, throwing it somewhere on the bed. You try to focus on your breathing as your head flops back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.

“That’s it, good girl.”

Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, as if trying to leave little pieces of himself along your skin. Until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers run from your clit down to your entrance. You flinch, body lighting up.

“Bucky–”

He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs, inviting your pussy to his hungry gaze. 

“Haven’t finished with you yet, sweetheart. Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your pussy, his words sending shivers down your spine, his hot breath tickling your most intimate area. He lightly flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing you with delicate and precise touches that burn so deliciously.

You feel like your body is going to implode as his fingers slide back and forth between your lower lips, and without warning, he slips one inside, eliciting a strangled moan out of you. Almost immediately, he finds that spongy spot as he leans in to tease around your puffy lips with his teeth, grazing the meat until your hips twitch up with need. He thoroughly licks up the slickness from your inner thighs, savoring every drop of arousal from your previous release. Your body is slowly melting under his unhurried actions, until Bucky decides to attack your clit with his mouth and you flinch, feet digging into the bed as a yelp leaves your throat.

“Ah! Bucky!” You choke out, a hand coming to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.

He knows you are especially sensitive, after all that relentless teasing and prolonged edging, but it only makes it better. “‘S okay, I've got you, sweet girl. Just let it happen.” With a mumble, he leaves a sweet kiss on your inner thigh, then slips another finger alongside the first one, making you cry out as he overstimulates your sweet spot.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily licking a long, slow strip from your clenching entrance all the way up to your pulsating clit, your natural scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. His saliva drips down his chin when his lips eagerly suckle on your sensitive nub, coaxing out desperate moans from your quivering lips. His need to please you is insatiable, and you can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending jolts of pleasure through your spine. You are completely lost in this wild lust, so feverishly intense, that you are left trembling with pleasure, on the verge of transcending into another state of being. His actions are an overwhelming assault on your senses, your mind and body both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers thrusting so precisely inside your poor walls. 

Bucky cannot escape the pleasure, his addiction to your unique flavor driving him to new heights of bliss. His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like an animal, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single touch of his cock.

At some point, he pulls away with a wet pop, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon, make a stupid mess on my face, beautiful.” He growls, voice husky with urgent arousal. His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds as he eagerly consumes you, his soft groans adding to the melody of pleasure filling the bedroom.

His fingers curl up, massaging that sweet, sweet spot of yours, so lost in the euphoria of it all that his arms shake with pent-up desire, his actions leaving you both teetering on the edge of sublime release.

“I’m gonna– fuck , please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts. He’s a fucking beast as he devours you whole.

“That’s it, doll, give it to me. Grind on my tongue, just use my mouth.” 

You obey, literally humping his face, convulsing under a thin layer of sweat. “‘M gonna come.” You sob. “Jamie– fuck!” His tongue abuses the poor bundle of nerves while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth and down his chin, soaking his stubble. He loves when you go limp in his hold, your whole body quivering under his palms.

“Shh-shh, you're okay, pretty.” He slowly retracts his fingers while keeping his eyes locked on your face, still dragging his lower face between your puffy folds, rubbing you raw with his facial hair to gather every bit of your orgasm. He brings his fingers to his mouth once he sits back on his heels, making a show of licking them clean before he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.

“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.

“One more.” Bucky kisses you, like an apology for being so needy.

“What?” You squeak, still dazed yet blinking at him, more awake than ever. 

“One more, baby.” He pleads, his hand soothing along your hips and waist as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”

Before you can beg to give it to you, a weight settles on your soppy core, hot and solid, sliding between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as Bucky thrusts forward, the underside of his length grinding along your heat, coating him in your slick. 

“Shit.” He grits out.

Gaping, your hand slowly reaches down to grasp him. He’s so thick and heavy in your palm, throbbing with desire as precum dribbles from the bulbous tip and over your knuckles. 

“Yeah, touch me like that, baby.” He rasps out, panting. “You’re so sweet to me. Letting me play with your pussy until you’re dumb and drooling and all pretty and relaxed for me.” He wraps his fingers around yours on his girth, tightening and squeezing the base. “There we go.” He grunts, bending down until there isn’t a sliver of air between you both. 

You mewl pathetically, garbling nonsense. He’s deliciously mean as he lovingly bullies your clit with his cock. Your raw nerves burn with every thrust, your juices spilling down your ass. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, sweet girl? Wanna be my pretty slut, baby? Spend every day being stuffed full of my cock? You won’t have to think about anything, just be nice and wet for me. I’ll put it in your mouth, and then get you on your hands and knees just to spank your pretty ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you.” He chuckles darkly as your eyes glaze over and your breaths go thin and shaky, every cell in your body buzzing as you cling to his forearms.

“You feel me on your pretty button, baby?” He grinds again. “Poor little clit must feel so sensitive. Is that why you’re crying?”

Above you, Bucky curses, mouth watering at the sight of the creamy mess you made on his cock, soaking the bed and his thighs as well. 

“Are you going to let me inside, baby girl? Fill you up with my seed, and watch it leak out because it’s too much for you to keep inside?”

“Please, please, Bucky.” You beg, nails digging into his skin. “‘M ready, so ready for you.” A pulse of agony beats through you.

He shushes your blabbering softly, cupping your cheek. “Alright, pretty girl. I'm here, just a little more patience.” The reverence in his blue eyes pours into your heart, unraveling in a delicious storm. “Thank you for letting me have you like this. Thank you for giving me the honor.”

You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and incredibly gorgeous, staring down at you with his blue eyes so full of fondness, you can’t ignore it anymore.

“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down into another kiss– hard, and desperate, and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.

With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, tip of the nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in reverently, brought to his knees by three simple words. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed about this. Of you. And now I’ve got you in my arms, and you’re mine– you are mine, right?”

“Wanna be yours, always have.” You whine, and with a broken groan, he caresses your hips, mapping out every inch of your body with his strong hands, kissing any part he can reach like this. He trails from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, capturing a nipple between his lips. Your arms hook over his shoulders to keep him close, softly moaning as he switches between your tits, his warm tongue taking care of both nubs thoroughly. 

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He murmurs, forcing himself to stay still as you adjust to his length teasing your entrance. “You’re gonna take it for me like a good girl, right?”

“Your good girl.”

That earns you a feral kiss that you break with a sharp cry when your hole starts stretching wide, welcoming the leaking tip with some resistance. Bucky initially distracts you with sweet pecks, but as he sinks into your warmth maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat.

“So deep.” You squeal, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.

“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so good. Jesus, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the head inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands coming to cling onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.

“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling more sensitive than before.

Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then shifts your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, and thrusts harder as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle sending your eyes back in your head.

“Oh shit! Bucky!” You reach around and dig your nails into his shoulders, toes curling.

He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in your little details as he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut every time your pussy pulses with a new sensation. At some point his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to pinch and rub your sensitive clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clamp involuntarily around him.

“That’s it, baby, there you go.” He coos, bullying your nub some more before he traps you completely under him on the rocking bed. His pecs press against your bouncing breasts, your sensitive nipples rubbed raw. 

“I love you so much, sweetheart.” His tongue drags up your cheek, your bitter tears fueling his primal side as he stifles your wanton noises with his tongue, your lips and teeth clashing in a filthy kiss. 

“Can feel you clench so hard, are you gonna squirt and make a stupid mess all over my cock?” His arms slide under your back, keeping you firmly against him with every rough thrust. “I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy and fill you up with all my love.”

The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision and his muscled arms keeping you safe and still for him to play with you.

“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” He growls, pounding into you earnestly, panting like a feral beast. “This is my pussy now. Gotta keep you marked up, show everyone that you're my girl– shit.” His voice breaks when you clench, choking him. “Wanna be mine forever, sweetheart?”

It’s too much– his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering whatever pops into his head.

And you? You just take it. You take it and you scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close. You whine and your toes curl with each thrust, your hips trying to rock back onto his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body erupts in flames, and you squirt as Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the broken fountain making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, still fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. He needs to ruin you for anyone else, the only thought in your mind each time your fingers plunge into your pussy being him and only him.

You shake uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock, balls deep against your quivering, gushing hole. 

He growls against your tear-stained cheek, every muscle contracting. “Gonna come, baby. Gonna come so fucking hard for you.” He repeats, his voice bordering on a snarl. “You are my girl now.” He pants, digging his fingers in the flesh of your ass. “Love fucking you, love watching you come, love you–”

Your vision is blurry, yet you don’t need it to know Bucky is completely surrounding you, from the heavy panting of his chest against yours to his damp skin sticking to your body. You decide to not acknowledge the creamy mess where you’re connected though, too embarrassed by what you have done. It’s intense, the way you’re so wet, warm and tight around him.

Bucky groans gutturally, harshly pressing his lips to yours, his face scrunched up tightly as he pins you down, not a sliver of space between you. “Fucking take it, fuck– take it, please–” His hot cum floods your ruined hole, spurting along your stretched walls to claim you fully. There’s so much that it spills out and down his pulsating length to his tense balls, joining your mess everywhere. 

Bucky ends up collapsing against you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for who knows how long.

You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet– and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax– so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewl when he finally reaches your mouth. Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.

“Hey,” He clears his throat, voice still hoarse. “Are you okay?”

Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. Bucky leans closer, resting his nose against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”

You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.

“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every damn bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”

A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel your trembling, the last threads of overstimulated energy slowly unraveling. He holds you tighter, hums a low, almost inaudible note against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks.

When he cradles your face in his hands, Bucky looks more lucid. “We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.

“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”

Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every thrum, every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble. Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall, tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars reflected in dark water, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, quiet worry, and secret yearning suddenly all converge in this single moment. His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest.

“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”

And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.

“Baby…I told you I want you to sit. Not hover.”

Rhett’s voice came out low and rough, each word thickened by the warm press of your thighs framing his face like a living crown. The sound vibrated straight through you, a lazy drawl that somehow managed to be both teasing and feral at once. His breath ghosted hot against your slick folds, close enough that the barest shift would have sealed the contact, yet you stayed just out of reach, knuckles white around the headboard slats as if they were the only thing tethering you to the earth.

His fingers–those strong, sun-browned fingers that had roped calves and gripped reins for years–dug deeper into the soft give of your hips, the callouses catching on your skin with a delicious rasp. He tugged insistently, trying to coax you down onto the flat of his tongue where he ached to drown.

“I don’t want to suffocate you,” You whispered, voice trembling on the edge of a plea. “I’m already up here…Isn’t that good enough?” He tilted his head just enough to meet your gaze, and the look that flashed up at you from between your legs stole the air from your lungs. Those blue eyes–storm-cloud blue, the color of deep prairie skies right before a summer downpour–were dark with something raw and bottomless. Hunger, yes, but threaded through with a desperation you’d never seen on him before, a primal need that made the muscles in his jaw flex beneath the faint shadow of stubble.

Beneath the pleading look in his eyes laid power, coiled and patient, like a wolf deciding exactly how he was going to take what was already his.

“Sweetheart,” He murmured, the endearment sliding out like warm whiskey, “When I said sit on my face…I meant sit on my face. Not hover.”His grip tightened, thumbs sweeping slow, possessive circles over the curve of your hipbones, testing, promising. You could feel the restrained strength in him, the way his shoulders tensed beneath you, ready to haul you down the moment you gave even an inch.

Heat flooded your cheeks, not from shame–Rhett had mapped every secret inch of you with that clever mouth more times than you could count–but from the sheer vulnerability of this new position. No one had ever asked you to surrender like this, to trust your weight, your wetness, your everything, right against his face. The what-ifs flickered through your mind like heat lightning: the crush of your thighs, the possibility of being too much, the fear of stealing his breath when all he wanted was to give you his.

“Rhett…” You shifted, the silky slide of your inner thighs against the rough stubble on his cheeks sending sparks skittering up your spine. “Just…Let me do it like this.” He squinted up at you, that half-lidded stare sharpening into something darker, more commanding. You saw the exact moment he accepted that his normal sweet talking wouldn’t work tonight and his chest rose on a slow inhale, the faint scent of leather and sun-warmed skin and something unmistakably masculine puffing up towards you. He didn’t want to be mean, nor did he want to force you into this, but you were so close–so close that he could practically feel your heat coating his lips–the he just needed to have you, and he’d do anything to get you into it.

“Y/N.” Your name left him on a lower register, velvet over gravel, a tone that curled straight into the pit of your belly and tugged. “Take your hands off the headboard…And put them in my hair.” A pause, deliberate, devastating. “Now.”

The command landed like a spark on dry grass. Your core clenched hard around nothing, a fresh rush of slick heat slipping over your folds begging to drip onto him. Your heart stuttered, then slammed against your ribs as if he’d reached up and stolen the oxygen from the room and thrown you into a zero gravity weightlessness that only you could feel. The world narrowed to the heat of his stare, the slow, deliberate way his tongue swept across his lower lip like he could already taste you.

Hesitation cracked, then shattered instantly.

One hand peeled away from the wood, trembling, and sank into the thick, tousled waves of his hair–soft as worn velvet, still carrying the faint outdoors scent of hay and open sky. Your fingers curled, gripping the locks tightly. The other hand followed, sliding through the longer strands at his nape, like you were preparing yourself to somehow be bucked off of him.

The second your weight shifted, Rhett moved.

With a low, satisfied growl that rolled straight through your bones, he yanked you down–hard, sure, relentless–until there was no more hovering, no more space, no more mercy. His mouth sealed over you like a man finally allowed to feast, nose buried against your mound, tongue sweeping broad and greedy through your folds. The sudden, perfect pressure dragged a broken moan from your throat as his stubble scraped deliciously against your sensitive skin and his blue eyes fluttered half-shut in pure, filthy bliss. You whined, arching your back slightly, already lost in the feeling of his tongue, and he couldn’t help but smile…