miffysk!

“It’s an irrational number known as phi, based on the ratio of line segments to each other and to the whole. I-It’s called the golden ratio, it’s a ratio we find all through life. In fact, most people we find conventionally attractive are based on that ratio. The unsub made an, uh, a reference to Leonardo Di Vinci, remember this? Di Vinci used it in a lot of his paintings. As a matter of fact, the last supper is the perfect example—”

The words tumbling out of Spencer’s mouth along with the pair of your footsteps are the only sounds echoing through the quiet halls of the rather antique hotel you were resting in for this case. A pleasant location. Clean carpets, which had Spencer pleased. Deep wood and golden light hanging above. The elevator was a bit on the slow side, however. Or maybe that was due to the building being so very towering in height. The ride to your room had to be at least a handful of minutes, and you and your boyfriend weren’t even sleeping at the very top.

As Spencer speaks, your eyes drift to the hanging lights above, the ones that stretch honeyed light across the winding hall. Normally, you would be nodding along, even if you couldn’t quite keep up with his mind. But this time, you stayed quiet. You just kept walking, Spencer trailing at your side, mouth moving like a motor as you both enter the old elevator as it groans and creaks.

Spencer, never one for social cues, seems entirely oblivious to your curious demeanor. Spencer keeps talking animatedly as the doors slide shut. “…and the Fibonacci sequence is directly related to phi! The way seashells spiral, flower petals arrange themselves— it’s all golden ratio-based. Even human faces… statistically speaking, facial symmetry aligned with phi correlates with perceived attractiveness at a 67% higher rate than average—” He pauses only to adjust his glasses and press the button for your floor. The silence from you feels normal to him. After all, you always listen quietly when he shares his mind.

Before the doors shut, you take a moment to peer around the enclosed space. Small, even for an elevator. The way you crane your neck around, it’s almost as though you're looking for something.

You press the floor button again before the doors can shut, and the glow of the number disappears, effectively stopping the elevator before it can begin its descent. Instead, you crouch down, absurdly choosing to press the floor at the very, very bottom, just shy of the basement.

“The whole concept is represented by the pendant the unsub had, including the logarithmic spiral created by… um…” Spencer starts to trail off, hands hovering in the air. “By- by using the fibonacci sequence, and if we pull up the towns all of the… missing are from— you, I, uh- I think you pressed the wrong floor?” He furrows his brow at your strange behavior, pointing to the row of numbers on the wall. With his infallible memory, he can be certain he had it right the first time.

But you're still poking your head about the elevator like you're looking for something, hardly acknowledging him. “Why’d you stop?” You ask.

“Uh… I mean…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I stopped because we’re going to the wrong floor. Our floor was 7? We’ll have to go all the way to the bottom now, why’d you do that?”

You step impossibly closer to him, shuffling in front of his body to create a barrier between him and the doors as they slide shut with a creak. “Go ahead, I was listening,” you nod encouragingly.

For a second, Spencer just stares at you with a suspicious look. Then, with a furrowed brow, he remembers his train of thought and resumes talking, albeit with slightly less energy than before. “So… phi is approximately 1.6180339887…”

The elevator has begun its descent. You watch above your shoulder as the aged dial begins to slide across the numbers at a snail’s pace.

The longer Spencer’s mouth moves, he almost becomes absorbed enough again to forget you were headed to the wrong floor. “It’s- it’s funny, actually, 11235 is a Fibonacci series, each number added to the number before. So it’s what the unsub’s ticks mean, subconsciously counting out fibonacci sequences over and over in his head! I mean…”

The elevator hums, you take another step even closer, taking advantage of the way he’s absorbed with his own ramblings again. With movements as casual as you could manage, you slide his cardigan off his shoulders, gently tugging his tie loose and popping open the top button of his shirt.

It doesn’t last long. His eyes are watching your every move and he slowly trails off as he stares at you with utter bewilderment. “… it’s a Fibonacci… series…?” He blinks. Once. Twice. “What- what, uh, what are you doing?” He makes no move to run from your hands, just looking back and forth between your fingers and your face, utterly lost.

Your lips hastily press to his with a force, and Spencer’s eyes blow open wide. His back thumps against the elevator wall. His lips move clumsily against yours by pure reflex. One hand hovers awkwardly near your waist while the other presses flat on the wall beside him for balance.

When you pull back, he pants, staring at you owlishly and looking delightfully vulnerable. “Wha— what?”

It all happens so fast. As the elevator hums and creaks with slow movements, your hands slide down his shirt, trailing from his neck to his chest, to his abdomen, then latching to his crotch and caressing his dick through the fabric of his khakis.

Spencer’s jaw falls open in a gasp, body slightly curling in on itself at the touch. He stares down at your hands on him, face burning red from his hairline to his collarbone. Then his eyes snap back up to you. “Hey! What are you- ah! Wh— wha— whatareyoudoing?” He tries to ask again, voice coming out a little too high.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” You chuckle, batting your lashes up at him.

It looks like you're touching his penis. Through his khakis. In an elevator. But that doesn’t make sense, right?

“I-uh…” He can’t seem to form words. Just staring, wide-eyed and blushing furiously. “W— we’re in an elevator!” He whisper-yells.

“Uh-huh,” you keep rubbing circles over his cock, pressing the heel of your palm into the bulge of his head under his pants.

Spencer makes a tiny, strangled noise. His hands finally move. One flies up to cover his mouth. The other holds the wall behind him uselessly. His eyes dart across your face as he sputters, panicked. “There- there are generally cameras and microphones p-placed in— mmm! Placed in elevators f… for safety reasons!”

“I already checked. I didn’t see any cameras. This place is too old-fashioned.”

He whines girlishly as her palm presses more firmly against his straining cock. “Microphones, then! M-Microphones can be quite easily… oh, fuck… hidden from view if the owner of the establishment—”

“Then you better keep your voice down, huh?”

Spencer bites his lip hard, trying to muffle the onslaught of dirty sounds threatening to escape. “Y-Yes,” he whispers, nodding frantically. “Voice down… quiet… oh, god.”

He’s trying so hard to be obedient, but every rub and squeeze and brush sends electric pulses through him and he’s already throbbing. His breath comes in short, panicked little puffs through his nose like a startled rabbit.

“W-Why?” He nearly sobs.

You tilt your head innocently. “Why what?”

Spencer swallows, his throat bobbing. “W-Why are you… doing this? I mean— we’re in a public elevator. We have a case. And I-I was just talking about math.”

The elevator continues descending, dinging as it passes floors 16… 15…

You rub your thumb over the shape of his tip and Spencer’s knees feel weak. You just shrug, “‘Cause I like to tease you.”

He whines, humiliated. “I… I like your teasing too,” he admits in a tiny, breathless voice. “B-but usually with words. Not this.” He’s completely overwhelmed by your casual dominance over him, and panicking over how much it was turning him on.

He gasps sharply when you massage his bulge just right. “Please! Please, please— hey! don’tdon’tdon’tdon’t—”

Your hand stills slightly. “Don’t?”

Spencer squirms, watching you toy with him helplessly. “I mean— yes! Wait, no— I mean—” His voice cracks. “Please, please, I-I really don’t wanna cum right now...”

You chuckle, biting your lip. “You sure?”

Spencer nods rapidly, eyes wide with panic. “No. No— I mean— yes! Just not… not like this. Not in the elevator.”

“Oh, but I wanna play with you…” You pout.

“P-Playing is fine! I love playing!” he blurts, then sheepishly lowers his voice to a frantic whisper. “But maybe… maybe in our room? Where we can close the door and— and change clothes if needed?” He’s grimacing now from the touch, his expression twisting like he’s in pain.

“Oh, you don’t wanna cum in your pants, huh?” You tease.

He ducks his head into your shoulder to stifle the sounds. “N-No,” he mumbles into the fabric of your shirt. “I—I have a meeting in an hour. With Strauss. And my pants are… they’re not stain-resistant.”

“Aww! That’d be so cute!”

Spencer lifts his head slightly, horrified. “Cute?!” he squeaks. “What? No! Not cute. Embarrassing! P-professionally devastating!”

Ding! Just then, the elevator doors fly open as they reach the floor nearest to the basement.

Spencer nearly jumps out of his skin when the doors open, practically leaping away from you, only to see an empty, dimly lit hallway. The second they close again, he exhales sharply, shoulders slumping.

You casually hit another button with your elbow. The elevator starts moving up to the very top.

“Top floor?” he asks quietly, eyes wide with hope. “Our room is on 7…”

“We’re not going to our room, I’m fucking you here, silly.”

“H-here?!” he squeaks, eyes darting around the tiny elevator. “In this… this box? B-But the— the microphones! The elevators are monitored for safety violations and— and crimes! Public indecency is a crime!”

But he stops when your hand comes up to squeeze his throat, a thrill shooting through him and straight to his loins.

His lips part slightly as he stares at you with wide, glazed over eyes. “Why don’t you keep talking to me about your math sequences? Hm?” You coo, rubbing your thumb over his adam's apple.

“I-I…” He swallows hard against your palm. “F-Fibonacci sequence… um, mmm, it’s a recursive series wh-where each number is the sum of the, uh? Two preceding ones… and um…” It’s hard for him to remember when the majority of his blood flow was going straight to his cock.

“Yeah?” You encourage him with a nod, so Spencer keeps babbling, dazed and breathless.

“S-so 0, 1… then 1… and the next is, oh, the next is two, so it’s— it builds exponentially. Like a spiral! Mm-hm. A logarithmic spiral which relates to phi again because of the golden ratio division in geometry which creates perfect aesthetics like Da Vinci’s paintings or seashells or—”

He pauses when you squeeze his throat just slightly tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his voice crack cutely.

“…a-and the ratio of a shell’s chambers to its width follows, ah, phi exactly, which means nature uses math for beauty and-and symmetry, like how people are attracted to faces with phi proportions statistically but god, you’re squeezing my neck…”

You grin. “You like it?”

“Y-Yeah,” he breathes, “I mean, scientifically speaking… mild pressure to the carotid artery increases blood flow which could theoretically heighten arousal but—”

“You didn’t finish telling me,” you remind him, but math was the furthest thing from his mind.

Spencer thinks, trying to remember where he left off, but nope. All gone. Erased by your hand on his throat and the heat coiling low in his stomach. “I… uh…” He swallows hard under your fingers. “I forgot.”

“You forgot!” You laugh, “Oh, no you didn’t, you don’t forget anything.”

Spencer pouts. “I did! I swear!” he insists, voice high and flustered. “My brain… I can’t really… recall anything.”

You rub your nose against his affectionately. “Am I making you dizzy, my sweet boy?”

Spencer nods slowly, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Dizzy… and warm… and my heart’s going really fast.” It wasn’t only the pressure on his throat, or the hand caressing his throbbing cock. It was the way you looked at him, touched him like you wanted to devour him alive in this stupid elevator.

Dizzy wasn’t the right word, he was overloaded. But dizzy works.

“You’re so cute when you’re all spacey,” you whisper.

Spencer’s face scrunches up, embarrassed and deliriously happy. His lips twist into a tiny smile, but he quickly tries to hide it by shyly pressing his face back into her shoulder.

“Am I making you feel good?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he hums into your skin.

You glance over your shoulder to see another number lit up on the panel. “Uh, oh…” You bite back a smile.

Spencer lifts his head slowly. He doesn’t notice the new number lighting up, still lost in his stupid, blissed-out haze. “Huh?”

“We got a visitor!”

Spencer’s body tightens. He straightens up instantly, panic flashing across his face as his dizzy brain scrambles to come back online. “Oh, no,” he frantically smoothes down his shirt and fixes his tie with shaky hands. He combs his hands through his hair and wipes any trace of lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand. He shoots you a wide-eyed look that says what do we do?!

But you are the face of indifference. You detach yourself from his side and turn your back to him, folding your hands in your lap like someone simply riding the elevator while Spencer is still panting and sweating and struggling to not look suspicious at all.

As the doors ding open, Spencer ducks his head down and half-turns his body away to hide the erection straining against his pants from view, while you are all but the picture of inconspicuousness.

A hotel janitor in a blue uniform steps in, pushing a cleaning cart. He nods politely at you, to which you respond with a small, polite smile back, then glances briefly at Spencer.

Spencer keeps his head ducked, shoulders hunched like he’s studying the floor tiles. One hand grips the railing for balance; the other crosses over his lap awkwardly to block his erection from sight.

The janitor presses button 3 and hums quietly to himself. And so, all the way back down you go, slow and quiet. Spencer stays statue-still, like he’s not allowed to breathe too loud. The janitor stands on the other side of the cart, occasionally glancing at his clipboard.

You remain perfectly calm. Not a single nervous twitch.

Every second feels like an eternity to him as they creep back down to floor 3 with this random man who could turn around and see his horribly suspicious posture at any given moment.

The elevator dings as it reaches floor 3. The janitor gathers his cleaning supplies and wheels the cart out without a word, leaving you and Spencer alone again, doors sliding shut behind him.

Spencer exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten minutes straight. Only then does he finally unclench, shoulders dropping, and look at you with wide, traumatized eyes.

“Really? I mean, really! Th-this is why I said doing… that in an elevator was a-a ridiculous idea!”

“Doing what?” You hum as you casually press another floor on the console.

Spencer gapes. “Doing that!” he hisses, waving a hand vaguely at the space between you, where seconds ago you were touching him. “Right before, with th-the—! And the—! …You know what I mean!”

You turn around, and Spencer’s protests and complaints simply evaporate when you latch your lips onto his. Spencer makes a soft noise into your mouth and kisses back, clumsy but eager. His hands lift to cradle your face instinctively, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he tilts his head to deepen it.

Your thumb circles around the head of his cock through his pants. Spencer whimpers into the kiss, hips grinding forward slightly to chase the contact. He breaks the kiss for a second to gasp, forehead resting against yours. He breathes your name like a plea.

“Where were we?” You grin cheekily.

“We were… uh…” He swallows, eyes fixed to your lips. “I think you were— you were torturing me.” He leans in to kiss you again like your mouth was magnetic, which you greedily accept.

You laugh softly against his lips, massaging his pulsing cock once again, smoothing your palm over his bulge. “Not gonna stop until you cum for me, okay?”

The thought is terrifying and thrilling at the same time. He whines against your lips, squirming as you massage him through his pants with just enough pressure to drive him insane. “I—I can’t… I don’t wanna—” he stammers between kisses, but his hips betray him by rolling into your touch. “Please, I-I really don’t wanna ruin my underwear…”

But his body isn’t listening. Every rub of your hand sends sparks through him, and the coil in his stomach tightens dangerously.

“C’mon, it’d be so cute. I bet you’re all leaky under there anyway.”

Spencer whines, mortified. “I-I’m not leaky!”

You laugh at his childish protest.

He flushes. “I-I don’t… leak! I control my bodily functions!”

But then your hand squeezes again, firm this time, and all defensiveness withers as a sharp gasp and a whine escape him.

“Bet you wish you could fuck me, huh?”

He nods mindlessly. “Mhmm. Yeah, a lot.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open to reveal a quiet, dimly lit hallway. He recognizes it. Your room is just down the corridor. Spencer stares at it like salvation, then back at you, eyes wide with hope.

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. Caressing him, toying with him, rubbing his bulge. You make no move to take the both of you back to your room to have sex properly. No, because it’d be silly of him to think you’d have any interest in proper sex.

What’s making his stomach sink, however, is the way you’re not pressing another button. The way you’re letting the heavy elevator doors stay wide open as you touch him, letting all his needy little noises escape into the corridors for any unfortunate passerby to overhear.

Spencer’s voice cracks as he whispers, “H-hey… the door… it’s open…?” He tugs weakly at your sleeve, eyes wide with nervousness. The hallway is silent now, but anyone could turn the corner. “People could, um… could see us?” He adds in a tiny, embarrassed squeak. He wants this, desperately, but not like this. Not out in the open where someone might walk by and see him panting, blushing, completely at your mercy.

You simply follow his eyes, glancing at the open door, considering it nonchalantly, then wordlessly return your focus back to him and his dick, much to his frustration.

“P-Please,” he whispers shakily. “Can we… go to our room? Just a few steps? Please?”

You sharply pat his cock right where he’s most sensitive, and it sends a jolt through him. “I told you, silly, I wanna play with you here.”

Spencer yelps. His knees buckle. “O-Ow!” It didn’t actually hurt, but it stung in that electrifying way that was making his cock throb even harder. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes from overwhelming sensation and your stubborn refusal to move this somewhere private.

Spencer bites his lip, eyes watering. “I-I don’t wanna— I don’t wanna cum in my pants… please, please…”

Teasing him, you ask, “Why not?”

Spencer blinks, baffled. “B-Because…” he stammers. “It’s messy! And— and I’ll have to change my clothes, and we didn’t pack extra underwear because we thought this trip would be short and— and—” He hesitates. “And I don’t— I just don’t wanna feel sticky and gross all day!” He whines miserably.

You chuckle, affectionately leaning your head on his shoulder like your hands aren’t down there working to make him explode. “But this cock is mine,” you murmur close to his ear.

He whimpers, tilting his head instinctively to give you better access to his ear. “I-I know… I know, I know,” he admits in a tiny voice, defeated but oddly turned on by how easily you claim him. “Yeah. Yours. But can I please cum in bed?”

You ignore him. “Mine, isn’t it? All mine? Mine to play with?”

Spencer nods frantically, eyes fluttering shut. “Y-Yours,” he breathes. “All yours. You can— you can play with me whenever you want.” The thought of being yours is almost as intoxicating as the physical sensations.

“Uh-huh. Then that’s all you need to worry about.”

Spencer hides his face in your shoulder again, breathing fast and shallow. It’s terrifying, being exposed like this. But also… thrilling. The risk makes every touch feel ten times more intense.

“Tell me how good I’m making you feel, Spencer,” you murmur to him sweetly.

“S-So good,” he whispers against your shirt, voice trembling. “You’re making me feel so good…” His face burns with shame and pleasure. “You’re… you’re the best, the best at this… I love it, I love you.” His hips seek more friction, rocking up into your touch.

“I love you too, my sweet boy. Are you getting close?”

Spencer nods against you, his breath coming in quick little puffs. “I-I think so… really, really close.”

You smile, feeling his tension, his breath picking up pace against your skin. You press a soft kiss to the top of his head before whispering, “That’s okay. You can cum if you want to.”

He swallows a moan, his body shaking. “I-I can… I can cum?”

“Uh-huh, you wanna cum for me? Wanna be my good boy and make a mess? Just for me?”

Spencer’s stomach flips. The words are filthy, and so tempting. He wants to, desperately, he’s so near to tipping over the edge. But the thought of actually doing it here and now, exposed and vulnerable, still worries him.

He whines softly. “Y-Yeah… but I’m scared.”

“Oh, baby,” you coo, “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

Your voice, soft and loving, quells the fear, and for a moment Spencer is lulled into believing you two are in the privacy of your own bedroom. Your hand is perfect, moving with just the right pressure and rhythm.

“Fuck, feels really good. Feels really, really good,” he cries pathetically. He moans your name in a plea for mercy. “Fuck, I think I’m gonna…! Please, please, oh fuck! I think I’m gonna—”

Everything tightens. The coil in his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. He clutches your shirt like a lifeline as he stops denying himself and the pleasure crashes over him in sweet waves. A quiet gasp escapes him before he can stop it, and suddenly he’s cumming right there, still fully dressed, pressed flat against you. He moans like a girl into your skin, jaw falling open wide as his release coats the inside of his boxers. You keep working him through his orgasm diligently.

The afterglow hits, warm and floaty. But he can feel it as he pants, coming back down from his high: the horrific wetness against his skin. And when the wire in him fully snaps and he goes slack in your arms, he grimaces.

Spencer is a limp, dazed puddle. He’s panting, sweaty, and so embarrassed by the mess in his pants. He hides his face further in your shoulder with a tiny groan of humiliation.

You just hum, gently stroking his hair, quite pleased with yourself. You kiss the top of his head sweetly. “It’s okay,” you murmur, soothing. “Nobody else booked this floor, anyway.”

Spencer nods weakly against your, still hiding. “Okay…” he pants, voice muffled by fabric. “That’s… that’s good to know.”

The two of you are silent for a moment as Spencer recovers, the only sound his heavy huffs and the faint hum of the lights beyond the elevator. “…Did you like it?” You eventually ask.

Spencer lifts his head slowly, finally meeting your eyes, cheeks still pink. “Mm-hm,” he nods shyly. “A lot.”

You smile, letting out a warm chuckle. “Good.”

You press the button to slide the doors closed, giving the two of you a quiet moment in your little bubble before any reality can creep back in again. Holding his warm cheek, you press your lips to Spencer’s.

He quickly leans into your kiss, eyes fluttering shut, melting into you with lingering affection and arousal. When you part again, he sighs contentedly and rests his rests his forehead against yours.

Eventually, he interrupts the peace with a meek voice, “Can I… can I please go change my pants?”

You giggle at him and lovingly pat his cheek with a nod.

+ Autistic Spencer, engrained into all of my one-shots re: him. (should’ve been canon i say as they drag me away kicking and screaming)

Warnings: sub spencer (like total, tell me what to do i am beneath you spencer), soft dom reader (with explicit mentions of her being hard dom, she’s versatile i love her), inexperienced spencer (but not a virgin this time !!!! oh my god, we’re making progress), crying, condescension, praise, some light degradation, copious amounts of begging (take a shot every time spencer uses his manners and says please), handjobs, head (reader receiving, spencer mentioned to receive), sex on every surface — SEX MARATHON (oh my god someone sedate them holy shit???????), they’re cute if you can believe me after reading all of that.

— this one is kinda academic!! learn something new while you goon guys!!! intellectual gooning!!!

w.c: 3.2k

A/N: tap tap tap is this thing on??? I apologise, it has been like a year and I can’t promise how consistent I will be with posting henceforth, but here i am…..

────────────

Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Midnight. The world feels pale and weightless, rinsed out and left to dry. He’s airy, courtesy of the Cabernet Sauvignon split over dinner.

Not drunk, he tells himself. Outside the restaurant, the light bleeds off the street lamps in a slow haemorrhage. He stumbles, wayward in movement: flushed cheeks, wine-soft mouth, half-unraveled already.

You’re standing beside him, and he never learnt how to talk to pretty girls. Not really. Not when it matters.

His mind won’t stop. Alcohol affects cognitive function, warnings smeared across college bulletin boards. He can confirm; right now, he is not functioning remotely. He should’ve told you, god he really should’ve told you that you’re beautiful. That he saw you a month ago and has been ruining himself in the weeks between.

If this is a humiliation ritual, then he will gladly regard it as a kink.

What do you think of him? The question nags.

Spencer, Spencer who you think is too soft. He wears a halo like the crooked glasses he traded last fall. Intellect like the black-hole in his stomach.

He is too good, too good for you, too good for anyone. He’ll stare at you like a wounded animal, but feed from touch regardless.

He’s a mess and you’re relating him to divinity. Well, divinity and wing-clipped birds.

Here. Now. In this moment that spills back into time, his brain is a blur of obscure facts, futile etymology, half-formed footnotes. Freud’s death drive loops behind his eyes, fucking Thanatos—right now?

“Good?” you ask. “Maybe we shouldn’t of ordered a bottle, ostentatious.”

Spencer laughs boyishly. He can’t believe you agreed. Internally, he’s 14 again; all elbows and unbrushed hair, holding the kind of loneliness that calcifies into something permanent.

He remembers the way girls used to approach him: lacquered nails tapping against lockers, mascara-heavy eyes, dressed in body spray and spite. Daring each other to flirt with the boy who could recite the periodic table backwards.

He fell for it. Fell for it until it carved something mean into his stomach. Something he never quite outgrew.

“It’s etiquette,” he argues, too earnestly.

“Ettiquette. Right. Next time, we should order everything off the wine menu and see how long it takes for us to get kicked out.”

Spencer is too strangled by the notion of a next time to even discern the rest of your sentence.

He blinks at you. ”Next time?”

“Yeah, Einstein.” your shoulder knocks into his. “Next time.”

You say it so definitively. Like you know, are terrifyingly consciously aware, that you own the noose looped around his throat.

Spencer is fine suffocating, if it means his mind will call cease-fire. Shut up shut up shut up. That last glass of wine was a big mistake.

He thinks of Pascal’s wager, betting on belief, even without certainty. No, he thinks of Camus’ absurdism, the conflict between humans search for meaning. No. Japanese ma (間) - the space between, the silence that holds tension. Fuck fuck fuck.

The smart ones always make dumb decisions. He should’ve never picked up the bottle in general.

So what’s he going to do? Word vomit. (…. nothing screams successful end-of-date behaviour like a spontaneous lecture on metaphysics and emotional dysfunction).

“You know, Schopenhauer believed that existence is driven by this blind, irrational force—The Will—and that it, um… well, compels everything to keep striving, desiring, even though fulfilment is always temporary.“

Great start. He’s going to die alone. “So we chase, we want, and we think that when we get the thing we want, we’ll be at peace, but we’re not, because..”

He makes a small, helpless gesture, like he’s trying to pull the words to him..

“The Will just,… finds something new to want. We’re built to be dissatisfied. We’re—we’re biologically wired for hunger, for longing. Even this, even you, saying next time—it lights up every neuron in my brain, every craving, every ridiculous, hopeless part of me that wants to hold onto you and know there’ll be more. But if Schopenhauer’s right, it’s all just… another loop. Another itch I can’t scratch.”

Spencer wonders if there’s a fault in his binary coding. “I’m sorry— that’s a lot. I just…. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to just… let myself want something without dissecting it to death.”

He’s still half-laughing, half-apologising, all stuttered ‘i’m sorry’s’ and ‘Derek is going to kill me for fumbling this’ when you cut through.

“Spencer. Genuinely, who cares?” You catch his wrist, sharp enough to register. “I’m not telling you there might be a next time. I’m telling you there will be.”

When you make decisions for him, it feels like a relief his prefrontal cortex can’t justify; you’ve short-circuited his need for autonomy by offering something even more seductive: certainty.

If he pops a boner right now, please have the decency to look away.

You sigh, “Stop running theoreticals in your head, genius. You just have to show up. Think you can manage it?”

Spencer swallows. “Um—yeah. Yeah. Definitely. I’ll uh,” he gives you this awkward, ‘I’m really trying!’ smile, “I’ll write it into my calendar…?”

“Preferably in red ink. With a little exclamation mark.”

“Oh. Okay. Yes ma’am.”

─────────

Spencer likes dates. Like when your knees knock under tables, likes your ankle hooked around his, likes the drag of your thigh when you shift in cramped spaces.

His favourites exist in coffee shops, when you overstay, just to psychoanalyse a stranger three tables over. When you stand up to stretch, soft and godless. He picks lint from his sweater like it means something, shows up with flowers and dumb memorabilia; pressing receipts into your palm, ‘Keep this, it’s from the night we first met,’ all wide-eyed intimacy that comes in a soft package.

He wears your hair tie like a wedding band around his wrist. Starts to humour horoscopes, simply because your star-signs match. If they decide to deem you ‘incompatible’ one day, he will resort back to fuck the stars, what are they anyway? Hydrogen and helium gas bombs. They’re wrong,… baseless.

Seventh date. You have him up against a bookcase, and he can only recite [ Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxyg… ] as you carve your way down his neck.

He keeps pausing, to highlight the legal risks of public indecency, to compare you to the Golden Ratio. 1.618: he can trace the sequence in your bone structure. He’s found it in autopsies and blood spatter and now, somehow, in the curve of your eyebrow.

“You should um…. come back to my place.” Spencer winces. “Ha, that sounded like a proposition. It’s not. I mean—I don’t think it is?”

He laughs, dropping his head to your shoulder. “I just…. have this list of movies I want to watch with you. Because people, normal people, do that right?”

“Last time I checked…”

“Okay. Yeah. Good. Um, here’s your warning. My TV buffers randomly, and the subtitles are stuck in Dutch for some reason, but… I have good snacks?”

Your hands bleed through his hair, sinking to the scalp. If he moans right now, he will kill himself.

Instead, he just blushes, pulling his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m aware I’m not selling this well.”

“Heeey. I like subtitles. Subtitles are good. I’m a talker, so it’s probably for the best—“

“—You like talking. I love talking. Everyone always looks at me weird when I pause 12 angry men to explain how Juror 8’s entire argument hinges on cognitive bias theories that weren’t even formalised until decades later, but! but! they’re so obvious if you just know where to look—“

He cuts himself off, goes to apologise (for the nth time this week). You beat him to it.

“Or when you try to explain how Solaris isn’t about space at all, it’s about the impossibility of human connection and how every interaction we have is just a projection of ourselves on the other person. Yup. Been there. My friends hate me. Movie nights are banned. It’s a crime.”

Fuck. Everything. You simply exist, talk all your pretty intellectual words, and now nothing else feels sufficient for him.

Queue the vows.

Sometimes, he gets off on the thought of exclusivity, commitment. Statistically, he knows that’s not marketable. Porn doesn’t cater to emotional stability.

Monogamy. Eye contact. Not exactly a thriving niche in adult content.

“Right. OK. You just summarised Solaris in one sentence. Cool.” he blinks, then again…. “Let’s get married.”

He stares. Kicks himself mentally. Attempts to backtrack. “I mean… platonically! Intellectually! The cost of living is too high right now to live alone— not….”

You scoff. “Platonically? You just had my tongue down your throat.”

“What? And you don’t kiss your friends?” he says, before holding up his hands in surrender. “That’s um, I was joking. I have never done that, won’t ever do that—can we leave now?”

“Scared we’re gonna get caught?”

“Yes, actually. I’m ah, a very serious FBI agent. It would be…. distasteful?… to be seen in such a compromising position.”

“You’re into it.”

“Yeah…” he sighs, like he’s disgusted by his own perverted actions, “Potentially.”

─────────

Spencer’s place is quiet, paper-soft around the edges—patchwork blankets thrown over mismatched furniture, books stacked into every miscellaneous corner.

The city outside is slick. Shitty late night weather: puddles that reflect sodium streetlights, fractured constellations smeared across the asphalt. It’s humid, everything outside smells of petrichor and old stone.

You’re both splayed across the couch, watching old re-runs as you debate over a movie. Dumb little arguments, interrupted by messy kisses that escalates into tangles of limbs and skin, and ‘oh? what was I saying?’

He lives in his own untouchable haze of domesticity. Leaving behind pen smudges and ringed coffee stains. He’ll let you kiss him, sweater half-on, collared shirt underneath creased. Pausing to pull himself together, only to ruin it all over again when his lips return obediently to yours.

Right now. Present moment. You’re straddling him. Bunched up fabric and heated touches He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

He wonders if you believe in limbic resonance. Wonders if his nervous system has attuned to yours emotionally.

“I want…” (he pauses, the words you, you, you lingering in his horny, sleep-deprived mind). “I want to.. be able to show you how I feel,” he says, which is an odd way of saying ‘I want to make you feel good.’

He’s just glad he can speak. Everything feels like glass and balanced china.

“This… yeah, .. shit Spence. “ — you can feel the pressure, the prominent bulge that presses between your thighs.

Maybe you’re hedonistic for dragging your hips against it. Earning a choked whimper from Spencer, who looks like he’s about to unravel.

“But—“ your voice drops mean. But what? You have the physical manifestation of warmth beneath you? What could possibly be more important than taking care of him?

“We should really figure out what movie we’re watching. I still haven’t seen Rashomon, which is a crime in itself….”

Interesting use of free-will.

It’s bait. Spencer knows it’s bait. Still, he’s a naive loser with a hard-on and prominent inexperience, so he bites, predictably. “Yeah. Huge crime.” pause. “Oh— ohmygod, you’re torturing me. That’s worse. That’s the actual crime here.”

His hips arch up to meet yours. Yes, yes please. He does not get out a lot (read: at all), and this is an amalgamation of every wet-dream, come to reality.

If he wakes up to tangled sheets, sweaty with damp in his pants, he will sue.

“You’re the worst.” he whines, “I really really don’t care if it’s bad manners, I want to kiss you again. I want to do a lot—don’t… please, I will beg. I have no dignity, I don’t care.”

You think there might be fatal consequences if you don’t remove his clothes in the matter of seconds. So, diligently, like a good house-guest, you work on his tie: tugging at the knot, unravelling it to start on his shirt.

“Thank you,” he says , genuinely terrified you’d leave him half-hard to watch a movie about the philosophy of justice.

Torso bare: he’s lean under those grandad clothes. Skinny, with olive-toned skin and sensitive nipples. Whore, you think, virginal, you settle on.

“Please—“

“Please what?” you repeat, pushing your hand against his chest, palm outstretched, forcing him back against the cushioned surface. “Use that big brain of yours to tell me what you actually want. I need words Spence, i’m sick of hearing pointless begs.”

“Anything,” he whimpers out. Little ah ah’s that bounce off the walls of his very grown-up apartment. In contrast, he feels like an angsty teenager now. “You could do anything to me. That’s what I want— I’m… I’m very good at following instructions!”

He will debase himself. Because, hello? He’s hard, throbbing and needy, and if you want to use force to coax him into coherence, then yes please…

No complaints here.

Your top comes off. Discarded fabric marking its way across his hardwood floor. Something incriminating. Perhaps it constitutes as evidence; that you have him, painfully awkward Spencer Reid, who averts his eyes and fumbles over sentences, all blushed and undone on the same couch he litters with academic journals.

Of course anything academic has been sidelined; he’s too busy marking his way across your breasts, messy lips latching onto nipples, leaving behind tethered strings of saliva, to care about…. IQ’s and WAIS scores.

“Do you think about this often?” you tug at his hair, pull him off your skin like a leashed dog. “Spencer. Listen to me when i’m speaking to you.”

“Mhm,.. ‘m sorry…”

He looks like he’s about to cry. He’d argue tears of fucking joy.

“Do you touch yourself and think of me?”

Everything is coming out wrangled. “Yes—“ he whimpers, “All the time. I can’t stop…. That’s bad. I’m sorry. That’s really bad….”

The TV is still playing. To Spencer’s dismay, it doesn’t muffle every indecent word that leaves his bruised lips undisclosed.

“I think about you every time I do—do that.”

They’re going to take away his badge, demote him to some office rookie. He will be punished for every night he’s stuck his hand down his pants and came to your name.

“The other day… when you dropped me off, when you got really close, I had to um,… you know, in the shower.”

He has the audacity to follow that confession up with: “I respect you, so much. But—you’re making me dirty. And I—“

Spencer’s hand clasps around your wrist, dragging your palm to his erection, the fabric soaked through with pre-cum.

He bucks up. Whines, like he can’t handle the consequences of his own actions.

“It’s a— a psychological process.” he says, in a last ditch attempt at maintaining (some) semblance of control. “When you see something you like, the visual stimulus affects your autonomic nervous system, which is.. um, linked to your hypothalamus. I’m, ah.. I’m a little overwhelmed,… if that helps?”

A pained whimper tears through him. “Oh— oh,” he can’t help himself in grinding against your palm.

You’re having a psychosexual effect on his brain. Everyone point and call out shame shame shame. “I need you,… just, just take care of me. Please?”

“Oh look at that, you asked so nicely. That was an actual request, well done.”

“I can be nicer.” Spencer argues; pathetic. So pathetic that it aches.

Someone collect his backbone on the way out.

You remove his pants, his stained boxers. If there’s anytime to play coy, it’s now, when you’re wrapping a hand around his cock: long, curved, with cum pearling around the pretty flushed tip

Everything is messy. The soak of saliva and lubricated arousal. “How does that feel? Poor baby, so deprived…”

It might be time to admit that he’s in over his head. How you’ve managed to reduce his thought process to base instinct is beyond comprehension.

It’s impressive. Spencer wants to study your skills in a lab.

“Feels,..” his words spill into sloppy whines, head falling back against the couch to bare the unmarred expanse of his neck. “You’re good. Too good! This is— you’re… I can’t last. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

It’s mean. Mean, making him watch as your hand drags down his length. He’d take notes, if he wasn’t so gone, because fuck, his own palm never felt this good.

This is corruption. Everytime you brush your thumb over his tip, he is being tainted. Left with too much pleasure for his big, yet so so dumb, brain!

Swollen lips part, forming a little o. He’s liquid, melting, coming apart at the seams. The orgasm itself makes him choke back mewls; it feels like warmth, it feels like he just debunked Schopenhauer, because for the first time, in his jagged life, he’s satisfied.

Personal record. He lasted 30 seconds. At least he didn’t cry,… improvements improvements. (A mercy kill sounds ideal right now.)

He doesn’t care about eloquence. Noise control, a filtered disposition. You’re kissing him through it, gentle parenting at this point, talking out soft praises that he’ll repeat later as he pre-orders a ring.

( ‘So perfect. There’s my boy. Shh shh, I know it’s a lot, you can take it.‘ ) Spencer wants your words under his skin. ( ‘Mm. You really needed this. It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.’)

This is a well-respected FBI agent. Condolences to the victims of the cases he works on.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that—“ he’s clambering over you, a fervid tangle of limbs, trying to communicate through actions.

He fumbles with the button of your jeans, stuttering out sorry! sorry! when his hands fail at simple tasks.

“Shh—slow down. Hey, eyes on me.” you say, coaxing his gaze to yours. “Chill out, Einstein. I’m not going anywhere. Literally, you’ve kinda got me cornered here.”

“Mm, yup. Can we stay like this forever?” he laughs, abandoning task to kiss you again. “Well, y’know… after i’ve gotten you off, of course.”

“Wow, a real gentleman.”

“The best. You should probably keep me.”

“Every intention. Knees.”

Spencer drops immediately. Like he was born to be reduced to such a demeaning position. There, he hooks his hand around your ankle and repositions you: legs draped over his shoulder, thighs parted - adequate room for him to slot between.

“I have an oral fixation. So, yeah. You can shut me up like this anytime. In fact,” he looks up, smiles, inches from your clit. “I insist.”

He’s not careful, nor considerate. He’s still strangled by the belief that he needs to repay you for making him see constellations. Burdened with the holy weight of being wanted, his tongue drags across your swollen clit, collecting wetness, before drawing it into the heat of his mouth.

Face drenched, cheeks smeared, he buries himself, sees god as he traces halos. He really really doesn’t want to do a subpar job. His mind has fixated, so now he’s going to overcompensate.

He is so so good at pleasing. He wants you to be proud, to give him a gold star and glowing reviews. He wants to be needed, to find some use in himself. To appease and provide and let you dictate his entire existence.

Your thighs tighten, groans, punctured moans crowding the stuffy air with noise. You feel the push of his fingers, long, deft digits, filling up hollow space, carving their methodical touch inside.

“Fuck—Just like that. There we go. So much better when your mouth is preoccupied.”

You can hear him whimpering, muffled little begs, careless and hurried, as he suffocates. He pushes through, abandoning trivial concepts like oxygen, pft—unnecessary. It’s a myth, Priestley was wrong. Lavoisier named a fallacy.

“Good boy. Good fuckin’ boy.”

Spencer stares up at you with a mouthful of pussy. Doe-wide eyes, glossy. “Just for you.”

Then, he’s returning to the task: tongue dragging between folds, leaving him to sloppily suck at your swollen clit.

He’s not sure who’s getting off on this more.

His fingers curve, earning a strangled gasp that has him nudging closer. You can only cant your hips upwards, limbs flagging, squirming as the bliss runs through. Snaking its way around your body until you’re overstimulated, hiccuping broken sounds.

In the aftermath, he has the audacity to press a chaste kiss to your clit. To clean up his mess, like a respectful citizen.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pointless. Every inch of him is smeared. There’s cum on the couch, and Spencer is currently situated on his knees, looking all too confident in his ministrations.

“Maybe we should’ve done this in the shower,” you say, knocking your thigh against his flushed cheek. “Shit, i’m going to ride you so hard for that.”

“Right now? Is that an option? Please say that’s an option.” he stands, stumbles, nearly knocks over a book as he fights the need for friction. “Because im hard again. And yeah—ow.”

He eats his own words.

Every sexually-suppressed nerve in his spent body is assiduously destroyed. You christen his kitchen, his bathroom, bed and dining table. He cries into the sex, let’s you bully him through every thrust: ‘Cmon, harder. I know you have it in you. Don’t make me disappointed.’

He genuinely, hand over heart, sobs when you take his overused, very confused, cock into his mouth later. His entire body is a bruise. You own every scrape. Tears spill down his flushed cheeks, wetting the soft skin there. “Shut up,’ you say, ‘Just stand there, look pretty and fucking take it.’ Or, ‘Behave. Show me that I’ve trained you well.’

And you have! You really have! Because he does shut his mouth, and he does thankyou after.

Refractory periods are apparently banished, you seem hellbent on corrupting him in every position, angle, and—

He has blame. Vindictive, censurable blame. If, mid-way through attempt 2 of after-care, he gets a little too fixated on the sight of your slick-wet skin, the steam of the shower, and his wandering touch.

And sure, maybe he drops to his knees the moment you suggest Star-Trek for background noise.

Every part of him is impure. Maybe he was born to live inside you.

Post-touch, stretched out across the mattress, the sheets are kicked aside: relinquished, probably in dire need of being burnt, entropy spilled between linen. Spencer turns to meet your stare.

“This is so unhygienic,” he mutters, pressing the pad of his forefinger to your bottom lip, cracked open, still branded by his teeth. “I’m gonna have to bathe myself in hand sanitiser.“

“Well I clearly can’t trust you in the shower.”

“Hey.” he pouts. “I want a do-over. Let me wash your hair. Then you can wash mine, and it’ll be just like that one shampoo ad I saw.”

“Mm, nothing makes stocks sell like the promise of domestic bliss.”

“Exactly!” he rolls over, rests his chin between your breasts—the same ones that are stained red, imprinted with Spencer-owned bruises. “Hear me out on this: shower, nap, movie marathon.”

You laugh, gather his face in the palms of your hands. Watch, real time, as he softens into molten gold “Yeah, OK. You’re on.”

There’s this study on Oxtocin, how it creates memory impressions during intimacy; a clinical way of saying that he will remember every detail of this until the day he dies.

“oh, oh my, yes, yes please! I have to keep going. I’m about to cum. it’s gonna get all over your pretty little pussy.”

he learns all his dirty talk from the dirty movies they’ve watched too. apart from his instincts and his imagination, and of course all his grunts and movements were purely primal.

“it looks so big when you press it up against me. I don’t know how it’s gonna fit when we get married,” she gasps, watching him rut like a dog and how it goes past her belly button. it’s sloppy, slippery, jutting around from all the blood that’s filled up. his sac is even heavy against her too. the way it bounces against her hole, gives her another part of him to clench onto too.

“shhh, we’ll make it fit. I won’t let it hurt you. we’ll be nice and wet together, just like this, then it’ll just… it’ll just slide right in,” he gulps. losing any other words that are left to say the more he thinks about it. “we’ll feel so good. and you’re gonna be my wife.”

“keep — keep going baby, don’t stop now,” she pleads. clark nods immediately, kissing on her neck while he humps her even faster. the slick is audible, gushing in between them as they whimper and slide.

“they think I don’t even touch you,” clark hums a laugh, slobbering on her throat through a wet, lazy kiss. “mmm. they think I haven’t even seen you naked. they don’t know I can still make this pussy feel good without even putting it in.”

she sprawls out her legs even wider, mouth open as she has her toes further up in the air, letting him take over their gyrating completely as they both leak all over each other.

“let’s cum together, honey. let me make you feel good. let go for me, cum on me. I wanna make this pussy feel nice and happy.”

clark ruts harder, faster. kisses her chin and swallows up his favorite noises that leave her mouth when they both feel the electric dip in their bellies. both of them clench, clark’s tip stills and presses up right against her clit while he lets out his long, gushing first spurt. she cums just as he’s creaming all over her clit, making a mess of her mound and even up to her stomach. they both roar and hum and whine as they rub out their highs, the splatter of all the evidence of their innocent fun coated all over her as they catch up to their wild heartbeats.

he kisses her and hums all his praises right into her mouth, some of it even nonsense as he slaps his filthy, heavy wet tip back on the lips of her pussy and the hood of her clit.

“you um, felt good? jeez, it’s so wet….”

clark is in awe at her shiny center, enthralled while he plays with the mess a little more. he gets shy and ducks his head back with a laugh and says he’s sorry if she’s too overstimulated. she laughs right back at him and shook her head, wrapping one leg around his hips to trap him back in.

“you can keep playing. it’s all yours.”

“it’s ours. our mess… and gosh is it pretty,” he breathes, rolling his head and tapping the sopping wet folds. “prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I can’t wait to be your wife.”

“well I can’t wait to be your husband,” clark retorts, pointedly looking at her and leaning in to give her a warm, selfish kiss.

“can’t wait to feel you inside me. all the way,” she whispers. holds onto his face.

“I’ll make you feel so good. I already can’t keep my hands off you.”

“and they’ll never know.”

“nope,” clark grins.

“Leon,” you squeal, not caring if your shrieks wake up the children upstairs. Hell, it could wake up Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, the elderly couple next door, and you wouldn’t give a shit. 

Your Leon is home. 

“I’m home, baby,” he says, voice hoarse and rough like the gravel beneath the SUV he parked haphazardly on the port. “Miss me?”

You remove your arms from around his neck and step back so he can come inside the house. “So much.” 

Not as much as he missed you. And your scent. Jasmine and honeysuckle, and all the sweetness of a late summer’s day drenched in milk and honey. He’ll need at least five minutes just to inhale you tonight. 

He follows you around the bedroom like a puppy dog scooting on its heels as you unpack his bag, listening to you complain about how rowdy the kids were, how you never want to take all of them to the pool at the same time ever again. His hands don’t leave your body, even as you walk back and forth between his bag on the bench and the dresser, unloading folded clothes, tossing dirty ones into the hamper. 

“Leon,” you groan, starting to grow weary of the hindrance on your movement. “Can you stop touching me for one minute so I can finish this?” 

He whimpers, sinking down to his knees so he can press the tip of his nose into your stomach, nuzzling his face into your flesh. From beneath arched brows, he glances up at you, his pupils wide beneath the low light of the bedroom, evicting the blues of his irises, whites drenched with need. “I’ve had a long week baby…be nice to me.” 

You sigh, evading his grasp to set the last pair of jeans into one of the drawers, closing it with your hip before returning back to your husband, still kneeling in the middle of the room. His hair is floppy and long, in need of a haircut, and soft beneath your fingers as you brush a curtain of snow-streaked blonde away from his eye. 

“You want me to be nice to you?” You taunt, a smug smile beginning to tease the corner of your mouth. His jaw is sharp and tense as you graze it with the faintest kiss of your fingertips. He nods enthusiastically, lips nearly quivering into a pout. “What do you say?”

“Please.” He swallows, his hands rising to your thighs then to your ass, caressing the flesh as he rests his cheek against your lower abdomen, pressing you into his face from behind. 

“Please what?” 

He glances up at you again, dark brows pinched in the middle, the fine lines in his forehead deepening. “Please be nice to me.” 

You shake your head. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, Leon.” 

“Let me eat your pussy…please.” 

“Sure, baby,” you say with a tilted giggle, caressing his cheek with a careful palm, noticing a surface-level scratch across the bone, already mended with salve. You’ll still have to kiss it better later for it to heal properly. Or now. You bend at the waist, pressing a feather-light peck onto the wound, and Leon lets out a tiny whine. 

Leon’s hands slide beneath your nightgown, the fabric gathering just above your hips, held out of the way by one hand at the curve of your waist. The heel of his other hand begins to palm your pussy, dragging it down the outer length of it before he slides two fingers through your drenched lips, focusing on the flesh on either side of your clit. 

His eyes are still affixed to yours, watching your face begin to wince in pleasure, the skin between your eyebrows creasing, your teeth baring down on your bottom lip. And he revels in the way your fingers pull the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging as he continues to tease your cunt. 

Then, his puckered lips begin to suck on your clit, a wet, gurgling sound coming from the act, so lewd it makes you shiver. He laps at your pussy, tongue flattening as he drags it up and down the entirety, from seam back to your clit where the tip of his tongue flicks the throbbing bud. 

It doesn’t take long for your orgasm to build. With Leon, it never has. Abdominal muscles contract and release as your walls begin to clamp down around nothing, squeezing out another gush of arousal onto the fingers that toy with your entrance. 

His hand has a death grip on your nightgown, crumpling the silk in his fist as he grows hungrier, devouring you through your climax until you’re a slobbery, jittery mess. 

"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.

He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.

"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.

But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.

.

The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.

Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"

Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.

If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.

He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.

Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.

He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.

In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.

He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.

The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.

Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.

He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.

.

The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.

Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.

His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.

The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.

Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.

Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.

Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.

If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.

You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.

From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.

The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.

You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.

Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,

"She's beautiful from this angle."

"She tastes so sweet."

"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"

Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.

Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.

He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.

That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.

Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.

Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck

Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.

Somehow, the fantasy deepened.

He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.

His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.

Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love

Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.

Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.

No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.

Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.

Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.

Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.

Until it stuck...or didn't.

The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.

Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—

With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.

The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.

His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.

.

The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.

"Ahh, shoot!"

He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.

Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"

"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."

You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.

Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.

Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.

Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.

His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.

His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.

Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.

Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.

Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.

How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.

How devastating.

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clark’s soft lips peppered kisses all over your cute face, each one wet and desperate. the weight of his hips forced your thighs open, his heavy cock sitting snugly in your tight pussy, squeezing and fluttering around him. he trails down to your tits, groping them lewdly with a fascination, licking his lips to stop himself from drooling when each squeeze rewards him with a soft spurt of milk, “golly…” he whispers. he leans down to press a kiss to your leaking nipple, sweeping his tongue over to catch a taste. “been thinking about this all day…thank you s’much honey,” he murmured gently before leaning down and taking your bud into his mouth. focusing on one and coaxing more milk out of the other, switching between the two.

the room was fairly quiet, only if you block out clark’s whiny moans, hips jerking occasionally, wet cunt cockwarming him as he sucked eagerly at your tits. you can catch onto the faint rhythmic swallowing, along with the soft appreciative groan or satisfied hum he makes when the milk lets down. he is so adamant to not let any go to waste, “you taste so good sweetheart…so good,” he mindlessly mumbles when a stray drop slides down your skin, his tongue quickly catching it, kissing his way back up to your nipple.

you could feel his cock twitch desperately, “clark honey..cmon, move a little,” you encourage shakily. he nodded with no hesitation, “o-okay, anything for you sweetheart- ngh, o-oh, feels so good,” he whimpered, fucking up into you, using one hand to pull your hips closer.

his massive frame pinned you beneath him, every thrust felt like it touched your soul, he was so deep in, stretching your walls so good, clit twitching as his happy trail brushed against you. usually, clark is a talker, always praising you, telling you how good you make him feel, but today? he was completely focussed on sucking the milk out of your tits. “please- mmn- pleasepleaseplease,” he whines, drinking from you like it was his life’s work.

he pulled away whilst pounding into you, “o-oh! oh sweetheart! mngh ah, so good- y-you’re so good to me- i’m so close!” huge biceps wrapping around you to hug you tight and breed his cum into you, offering deep shallow thrusts, his rhythm messy now that he was approaching his orgasm. “ah! ohh- m’gonna cum! ungh- please! please!!”

you moan, eyes rolling back as you clamp down, “fuck! oh! clark- ah, yes yesyes! cmon baby, m’so close!” tugging at his soft messy curls when he leans back down for one last harsh suck, moaning around your nipple when he slams into your wet pussy with one last thrust, stilling as his cum gushes out in thick heavy spurts, coating your fleshy insides with a gooey white. the vibrations of his sweet groan against your tit tipped you over the edge. gripping his leaky dick as the warm orgasm in your tummy releases.

your trembling hands cup his cheeks whilst you catch your breathe. clark’s careful not to crush you as he kisses up your warm face. “so good for me, you did so well, mmwah, love you so much,” you smile with a tired huff, “love you too clark.”

the thick haze of sex slowly cleared. all that was left was the soft ruffling of the sheets and clark’s steady breathing. he quickly headed to the bathroom and returned with a warm towel, the soft pink dusting his cheeks still lingering as he shyly looked up to your through his messy hair.

“are you okay?” he whispered, placing the towel down before laying next to you, pulling up the blankets to tuck you in. “i..i didn’t hurt you did i?”

with a plain frown, he scratches his back before throwing his blanket over his body and tip toeing downstairs, hoping some fresh air might do something for his nervous system. every step is carefully placed as to not creek the floor, every move so methodically planned. he hugs himself as he grabs the carton from the fridge and fills a glass up with milk and microwaves it until it’s warm. careful not to let the alarming beep go off before he hugs it to his chest and takes a thick sip as he slowly slides the back door open and steps out.

the air is crisp, with a subtle wind blowing and shaking some of the leaves off the trees in the distance. clark makes a point to keep the main light turned off as to not be noticed and takes thoughtful sips of his milk, looking up at the stars. it could’ve been ten, twenty minutes for all he knew that he’d stayed like that outside. trying to get ahold of his racing thoughts and anxieties manifesting from his fear of being so far away from home. his ma and pa still call to check in on him every now and then and check in to see if his nightmares are still as bad as they were when he was a child. clark is always assuring them that he’s doing just fine even if he’s lying through his teeth. they care enough to notice the dip in his voice while he lies, but they don’t prod any further if he wasn’t opening the door to talking himself through it. they figure he has new friends of his own in his life that he can confide in.

a helpless tear rolls down from his left eye before he can stop it, an unexpected sob rushing from his throat after he finishes his glass of milk and sets it down on the side table. in a quick, anxious attempt to conceal the noise of his sobs he covers his mouth and shields his face with the blanket, knowing that the tears were still coming and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop them. all’s he could do was let them out and hope for the best that he isn’t making noise, that this is just going to be one bad night and that tomorrow night will be better.

his eyes are red and exhausted from his hands angrily scrubbing over them. since he’s in the dark he thinks he’s in the clear.

when he thinks the worst wave of it is over, he tries to swallow the lump in his throat and gets up to head back to the kitchen for another glass of milk, and gets stopped in his tracks from the kitchen light turning on.

like a vampire in the sun, he flinches and covers his face, head going down in shame while he sniffles and tries acting like he wasn’t just crying his heart out like a pathetic loner on the back porch. his roommate, squinting with her own glass of milk in hand, scratches her bird’s nest of bed head and lazily smiles at clark.

“oh. hey! I didn’t know you were out there. I was about to lock you out,” she says casually, yawning and sipping her glass before she notices the great lengths he’s going to avoid her gaze. “woah. are you—hey, are you okay?”

all clark can muster is a piss poor excuse for a blatant lie of “yeah.” his voice even cracks too, adding a cherry on top of a very pathetic cake.

she doesn’t blink or even think for a second before she’s rushing over. the sweetheart that she is. her warm hands felt like a hot stove up against his cool cheeks, pushing her thumbs up his chin so his face can’t hide from her anymore, and she sees it. she sees it all. the tear stained cheeks, the red, puffy eyes, the snot probably still stuck in his nose.

“I’m fine—“ he tries to squeal, the sniffling not helping his case. she looks at him with deep, sincere concern in her eyes, doesn’t speak for a long moment before bringing him in a long, warm bear hug. and clark’s water works begin all over again. sobs wreck his throat, tears gush out to his cheeks and down his jaw, tickling him. he says he’s sorry, says he doesn’t know why he’s acting like this, says he didn’t mean to wake her up and that he’ll make it up to her if he did.

“clark, don’t apologize. don’t apologize.”

she brushes the back of his hair and rubs along his back over his blanket still shielding him. clark says sorry again anyway, desperate to assure her that nothing is wrong, nothing happened, he just ‘gets like this sometimes.’

“I know we don’t talk a lot about things beyond the surface level bullshit, but you’re seriously breaking my heart right now. you can absolutely talk to me, get off whatever is heavy on your mind,” she murmurs. rocks him back and forth in her arms while he towers over her with his stature.

he chuckles through a sob at that, ducking into her shoulder and lets himself get rocked like a baby. can’t help himself but to relish in the warm, inviting embrace, nuzzling himself into her like she’s his lifeline.

“I uh, I just get… I get real homesick. and lonely. I miss my parents, it’s been h—hard to adjust being away from them, they’re all I had for so long,” clark musters to speak, voice quivering through more than half of his words. she offers him her glass of milk with a raised brow, to which he smiles and graciously takes the glass, hesitating at first but ultimately giving in and taking a sip. it did wonders for his throat, thickly swallowing and carefully going in for another before he sets it down on the counter and sheepishly goes back in for another hug, bending his neck down to shove his face back in her shoulder. of course she smells so comforting, and it was addicting already to sniff her hair that was graced with the fresh scent of that shampoo that sat in their shower. it really soothed him to be held, to be held by her, specifically — his beautiful, patient, kind and understanding roommate of three months that hasn’t made a single complaint about living with him, and on paper really hasn’t given clark a single reason to not feel like he could open himself up to her like this. he supposed his nerves always got in the way.

“what do you miss about home the most?”

clark pulls back and looks at her, turning red when she wipes a stray tear away and holds onto his face. “I um, I miss… I miss getting physical touch, physical touch like this,” he admits. “I miss my ma’s homemade bread. I miss both my parents helping me with—with my nightmares,” he swallows, averting his eyes to the floor with a bite of his lower lip. “they’d stay up with me, warm me up some milk, tell me that I’m not alone. I can’t… I just can’t seem to get any sleep when I’m alone,” he breathes out.

she nods her head slowly in understanding. gets up on her tippy toes to give his cheek a kiss, and clark reels from the contact, clenching his jaw and rapidly blinking his eyes while he wonders if what just happened really just happened.

“let’s get you some more warm milk, then I’m taking you up to my room. sound good?”

. . .

clark cluelessly follows her back upstairs to her bedroom, awkwardly stepping as he’s led by her hand in his. she took it to heart when he said he missed physical affection, and her hands have stayed on him since.

her room has always looked cooler than clark’s. posters decked out on the walls, bohemian plants strung out and framing along her window. she has a diffuser that makes the room smell soft and almost tropical. used bras and panties strung along her full hamper, and the sight makes him try to stifle a smile, rubbing his lips together.

“come here,” she guides. laying on one side of her bed, leaving plenty of room for him to get in right beside her. she expectedly holds her hand out for him, watching intently as he carefully sets his full glass of milk down and shuffles into the empty side of the bed, unsure of where his long limbs should really go.

“you can spread out you know. don’t have to stay crumbled up in a ball all night.”

it could have come out snarky, sarcastic, witty — but it comes out sincere instead, like she didn’t want to just watch him remain so uncomfortable.

with a thoughtful sigh, he gives in and spreads his legs out, grazing hers in the process and holds onto his blanket with his other hand that wasn’t grasped in hers. of course it dawned on him how intimate this really was, how she saw him cry and her first actions were to hold him, talk to him, give him more milk. it strangely makes his lower belly start to tingle almost with what felt like butterflies while he works himself up about how maternal his roommate really was towards him. the rocking back and forth in their hug, the gentle reassurance, the open ears that didn’t judge him for a split second.

it fills him with another burst of emotion, enough to make him get on his knees and start to cry again.

he turns towards her, finding she was already looking at him, wondering what the hell he was probably thinking so loud about.

“thank you,” he licks his lips. “thank you for doing this. for being kind to me. I don’t really cry in front of people except my family. I don’t mean to dump all of my problems on you.”

she shakes her head and scoots closer, slowly reaching an arm over his chest, testing to see if it’s boundary crossing or if it comforts him. clark scoots further into her, rushing to answer the quiet question: how close can they really get?

“you’re not dumping anything if I wanna hear it,” she replies. “hate to see a face this pretty cry like that.”

clark’s lip wiggles as if on queue, still chuckling through another little sob wrecking through him while he scrambles to wipe an incoming tear.

“no, no baby, let it out. don’t hold any of it in anymore.”

and with that, clark lets the floodgates open.

he cries again, less soft and quiet as his meltdown outside. this one is thundering, takes over his whole being while his head closes in on her touch while she shushes him and hugs him to her, kissing his wet cheeks while he lets everything else he’s held in come to the forefront.

she hands him a tissue after a minute, letting him blow his nose and drain his mucus, balling up the tissue into his fist to not dirty her side table with any of his germs even if they were bunched up in a napkin.

“does that feel a little better? drink your milk, baby. don’t forget about it.”

he nods and stutters to grab the glass and chug, finishing most of it in one foul swoop before wiping the corners of his lips for stray drips.

she gently fusses with his hair, brushing it in different directions so he never misses out on any physical contact. her leg even crosses over his lap, cooing in his ear that he’s never gonna be alone, not ever again.

clark curls in on her, looking smaller than he ever has even with his frame and build. he lets out hurried little boyish uh-huh’s when she repeats to him over and over, you are safe. and you are not alone.

when he’s floating in a post-cry haze, eyes so swollen he feels like he could’ve gotten punched, a name falls from his lips without his upstairs brain’s full knowledge like it was instinctual.

“mommy…”

the pets never stop. not a single inch of her body reacts, no limb even moving to push him off of her bed. if anything she gets even closer, if that was even possible.

while he nuzzles his nose into her neck, she caresses his back and hums. not giving any indication that he’s said anything out of line.

so he surrenders and says it yet again.

“mommy, mommy I need you so much,” clark whimpers. tries to hold in more of the seemingly endless supply of pathetic tears he’s held back and bottled up for far too long, all his jumbled emotions coming in a whirlwind at the first feeling of someone touching him, someone seeing him and his pain and not running away or letting him go to bed scared and alone.

“you’ve got me. I know. and you’ve got me,” she affirms. kisses the top of his head, never stopping the circles on his back. “you’ve got mommy.”

clark’s tone is hopeful when he looks up at her face to read her as best he can in the dim light, leaning in to her as she cups his cheek.

“I… I do?”

“of course you do. mommy’s right here.”

. . .

this had become a nightly ritual.

a strict, no nonsense break of their curated routine. if clark had a troublesome day and marched up to his room after work, she let him sit it out alone for no more than twenty minutes before she was knocking on his door, crawling on his lap, asking him to let it all out for mommy once again.

if clark had a good day, he would tell her about it too. how he didn’t get any bad feedback by his supervisor on his report, how he got to pet one of the stray cats in their neighborhood that were notorious for running away at the sight of any people.

she praised him when he needed it, smothered him when he needed it. held him too of course whenever he looked hungry for her affection.

she mothered him in a way that made him feel a way he truly hadn’t felt before, and that alone brought up another string of anxieties. about not being enough, about being too much. too needy. too much of a little boy. too much of a momma’s boy.

there were even times she’d have to ring it out of him, what he was feeling. she could read every facial expression that passed over his face like the back of her hand. and it was always taken in a stride. she tells him he’s silly for overthinking like that, but that it’s okay to tell her these things, and that he shouldn’t let thoughts like those start to even fester. because she’s all in.

after one particularly treacherous nightmare he wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily and trying to self soothe with his blanket. in a fit of frustration he kicks off the comforter and of course, in turn, wakes her right up.

“baby boy,” she reaches up for him. knows what’s wrong from the second he stares up at the ceiling, stubborn with a frown stuck on his face. “is it too hot for you?”

clark breathes in deep, fights the thoughts in his head that tell him he’s a freak for needing so much love and so much attention, and leans in to kiss her right on the lips, whimpering in her mouth when she automatically reciprocates.

“mommy,” he smacks his lips against hers, smelling the natural scent coming off of her from her neck. “mommy please. please.”

“tell mommy what you need.”

“I need your kisses,” clark full on whines. doesn’t hold anything back, doesn’t minimize his needs. gives it to her straight. she’s never punished him for telling his truth before, and she wouldn’t start now.

“I wanna touch you, mommy,” he swallows. “can I please…”

his hand shakily trails down her side, feeling goosebumps make way on her skin. it makes him lick and bite his lips, leaning in for another warm, needy kiss that threatens to grow even deeper while he preciously tries to glide his tongue in her mouth and lick along hers.

“you can touch mommy. I know what you need.”

clark’s cock shamefully fills and rolls up against his belly at her words, aching for some stimulation as he trails more kisses from her face, to her jaw, to her neck. hands exploring lower than anywhere his hands have ever explored before. they drift down to her hip, to her waistband, to her stomach and breasts.

“take care of me so good, mommy, always…. I just wanna be a good boy to you. wanna be a good boy for you,” he hums. she beams from his complete one-eighty change in disposition, from his sulking, shivering ball of anxiety into this flourishing, outspoken, touchy boy that knows to voice what he needs.

“can I… I wanna—“

his words are cut off by an unabashed groan when her hand grabs his and stuffs it down her panties, letting his fingers feel the pearly skin of her naked pussy, no layers in between.

“momma you’re so soft,” he whispers. doesn’t let himself tighten his hand over her mound too hard, gently pressing his palm in and applying a slow, easy pressure. his fingers have already started to get a little wet, and that did things to him that he won’t ever be moving on from. “pussy’s so warm. feels so perfect, mommy.”

she grinds into his touch subtly, hips raising up in heated figure eights while he kisses her and swallows up the moans she lets out too, mirroring his to a T.

“I need it. I need to.”

she doesn’t fight or protest anything as he ducks his head and crawled down the bed until his face was right between her open legs.

“take off mommy’s panties. go on, don’t have to be my shy boy. indulge yourself, baby.”

clark nods his head again, eager to follow orders when he pulls them down in a swift motion, dropping them to the floor off the edge of the bed. nothing could stop him from going in, from taking that last final step. he hums like he’s just found the most decadent meal to eat as he stuffs his face into her pussy, wiggling his tongue over her clit, gliding the flat of it down her lips and her hole. it weeps and clenches down and makes squelchy noises the more he sucks, and it’s so juicy and ripe that clark can feel his own dick pulsing even if he’s still completely untouched.

he moans and keeps scarfing down, sheepish voice muffled, only the words please and mommy able to be deciphered.

that tongue proves itself to become a dangerous addiction while she humps against his face, grinding her clit up to his nose while he fucks his tongue up to breach her g-spot and thrust it in and out like his face only existed at her leisure. it was rejuvenating, it was astonishing, how close to another human being he’s felt since he first cried in her arms and showed her sides of himself he never wanted to claim as his own. he hopes his tongue can do the talking, can tell her how much he appreciates her and hopes to give her as much as he takes.

she curses and slams her hips upwards when he curls his tongue so right, nudging her clit with the bridge of his nose with the right pressure and humming in a way that felt divine. clark continues his feast and stares up at her to watch her fall apart, to watch her feel good. her mouth is wide open and her eyes squeeze shut while her pussy walls quiver and gush against his mouth. it felt heavenly, like a religious experience to feel her cumming against his mouth. to get to suckle on her clit and watch his mommy lose it.

when he licks her clean she laughs and pulls his face away, too overstimulated to allow him to keep going. as he gives in despite wanting to stay right where he was, he switches gears to her inner thighs and lays the wettest kisses all over her, cum still smeared all over his lips and chin.

“you taste so good mommy. you fed me so well,” he mutters, licking her spend off his face with his outstretched tongue, leaning in to her hold on his pink cheeks.

“you all full? don’t wanna leave my baby boy hungry,” she whispers. plays with his hair again, one of his favorite forms of her attention and affection.

he closes his eyes and hums, says he’s all full now and ready to go back to sleep. doesn’t care that he ends up faceplanting right between her thighs, cheek laying directly on her naked pussy as he snoozed away with no night terrors getting in the way of his peaceful rest.

she was the antidote. to all his homesick worries, to all of his outside failures and personal interior failures, she was always there to put a lid on all of his troubles again whenever the lid flies off.

the habit became a habit because the high never seemed to wear off, soothing himself by getting his head between her thighs and kissing her pussy or licking her pussy until he was slowly falling asleep. he’s been out like a light with his airways nearly blocked by her crotch, nearly dead to the world in a deep sleep that he couldn’t ever have on his own.

the nightmares eased down the more he gave in to his desires, humping her leg and shamelessly screaming mommy when he cums. eating her out for a good hour at the very least every night so he feels high and buzzed off of pleasing her. taking care of her. thanking her.

“mommy, mommy you’re the best. you’re so beautiful. m’so lucky I have you.”

“I’m so lucky to have you, baby boy. and if you ever need to eat before bed, just eat. you need to be fed.”

so clark eats. he eats to think straight before work, he eats for a good several hours in bed after dark to feel the rush of her cum sticking to his lips. he lives to come home and make his mommy feel good, to make himself feel good. even eats to make himself feel safe again.

she never downplays the affect it has on him, the way it’s comforted him like never before. she knows it’s more than just a bedtime treat for him.

a couple nights in a row he even has her sit down on his face and ride, gladly licking up everything that drips out of her and having her cum against his nose at least three times before they both pass out, her legs still trapped over his face with her head shoved in the pillow.

after several months of their ritual he officially moves into her bedroom, hardly ever going into his old one unless he went for a new change of clothes, still preferring to go straight back to their shared room to change.

once in a while in public he’s let it quietly slip, his little voice uttering a helpless mommy if he’s on the verge of a panic attack. she of course identifies when he needs her touch more than ever to ground him back to reality and step out of the anxieties that plagued his head. and sometimes, only sometimes does he end up dragging her to the nearest family restroom and make his mommy take off her panties so he can soothe himself with his mouth back on her clit to suck.

little sequel here

. . .

I got so carried away with him being sad and homesick and how lonely poor baby would feel, and how he needs a mom-like figure to worship and get love and attention from.

You were the divorced mom down the hall who spent weekends alone. A body that had softened, filled out, grown into itself—and a confidence that came with it.

Tonight, the power had gone out in the middle of a brutal summer storm.

Your place was the only one with a working generator hookup, so you knocked on his door with a flashlight in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

“Hey,” you said when he opened it, leaning against the frame in a thin tank top and cotton shorts. “You’re welcome to wait it out here. No sense sitting alone in the dark.”

Bucky hesitated, cheeks flushing under the stubble, but he followed you inside like a lost puppy.

Now the storm raged outside while candlelight flickered across your living room.

You sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, watching him. He perched on the edge of the armchair like he might bolt any second, metal fingers drumming against his thigh.

“You keep looking at me like I’m gonna bite,” you teased, sipping your drink.

His eyes flicked up, wide and uncertain. “You’re… you’re real pretty, is all. And I haven’t— I mean, it’s been a long time since I…”

Since he’d been with anyone.

You set your glass down and patted the space beside you. “Come here, sweetheart.”

He obeyed immediately.

The couch dipped under his weight, heat radiating off him, rain clinging to his skin. You could smell it—clean, storm-soaked, mixed with something distinctly him.

You reached up slowly, giving him time to pull away, and cupped his jaw.

“Ever been with a woman who knows what she wants, Bucky?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, breath catching. “Not… not like this.”

“Good.”

Your smile was slow. Warm.

“Then let me show you.”

The kiss started soft. Just a press of lips.

He made a quiet, surprised sound, then melted.

His mouth opened under yours like he’d been starving for it, his hand coming to your waist, tentative at first, then firmer as you deepened the kiss. You guided him easily, letting him follow your lead, his shy little responses sending heat pooling low in your belly.

When you pulled back, his lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide.

“Bedroom?” you whispered.

He nodded so fast it almost made you laugh.

You took his hand and led him down the hall.

Your room glowed gold in candlelight.

You turned and pulled your tank top over your head.

His breath hitched.

Your breasts spilled free, heavy and soft, nipples already tightening in the cool air—and under the weight of his stare.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, like you were something sacred.

“Touch me,” you said.

His hands shook as they came up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples with reverent care. You arched into him with a soft moan, and that was what broke him.

He dropped his head, mouth finding your neck, then lower—kissing, mouthing, until he wrapped his lips around your nipple and sucked.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, holding him there.

“That’s it, baby… just like that.”

He groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight between your legs.

You could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants—thick, insistent against your thigh. Your hand dropped to palm him, and he jolted, hips jerking forward with a broken sound.

“Easy,” you murmured, stroking him slow. “We’ve got all night.”

You undressed him piece by piece, kissing every inch you revealed—scarred shoulder, metal plates, soft skin, the trail of hair leading down.

When his cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, already leaking—you exhaled softly.

“So pretty.”

You dropped to your knees.

“Wait— you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you said simply, looking up at him. “Let me.”

The first swipe of your tongue had him swearing under his breath—something that sounded like Russian.

You took him deeper, working him slow and steady, hollowing your cheeks, your hand cupping his balls. His thighs trembled, metal hand hovering near your head, not touching—like he didn’t trust himself to.

“Ma’am— fuck— I’m gonna—”

You pulled off with a soft pop.

“Not yet,” you said, standing. “On the bed, soldier.”

He went instantly.

You climbed over him, straddling his hips, your shorts and panties gone in one smooth motion.

You were soaked.

Achy.

And the way he looked at you—spread over him, open, dripping—made your clit throb.

You took his cock in your hand and dragged it through your folds, teasing yourself, teasing him, until you were both breathing hard.

“Ready?” you asked.

“Please,” he said immediately.

You sank down slowly.

Every inch.

The stretch was perfect—full, deep, exactly what you needed. You both moaned when you bottomed out, hips meeting his.

You stayed there a moment, letting him feel it—how warm you were, how tight, how you clenched around him.

Then you started to move.

Slow at first. Rolling your hips, grinding down so your clit dragged against him.

His head fell back, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping your thighs hard.

“Look at me, baby.”

He did.

Glass-eyed. Wrecked already.

You picked up the pace, riding him harder, the wet sound of skin filling the room, louder than the storm outside.

“You feel so good,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss him. “Filling me up so well.”

His entire body reacted.

Cock twitching hard inside you, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

“I've got you,” you whispered, rolling your hips in tight circles. “You’re doing so good for me. Such a sweet, needy boy.”

That was it.

He came with a shout, hips bucking, warmth flooding you in hot pulses.

You followed right after, clenching around him, riding it out until your body gave out and you collapsed onto his chest.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. And rain.

Then his arms wrapped around you—tight. Careful. Like you might disappear.

“That was…” he exhaled shakily. “I’ve never…”

You kissed his jaw, smiling against his skin.

“We’re just getting started, sweetheart.”

His cheeks flushed.

“Next time,” you added softly, “I’ll teach you how to use that mouth.”

He huffed out a quiet, nervous laugh.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Outside, the storm began to fade.

Inside, candlelight flickered over tangled sheets and soft skin.

And Bucky Barnes—former assassin, war hero, haunted man—curled into you like he’d finally found something safe.

Something warm.

Something his.

And you?

every time it happened, you did your best to soothe him, holding him close and whispering about how you weren’t upset. you never took it personally — you knew bucky adored you. he wanted you more than anything, and this was never his fault. still, despite all of your sweet words, bucky couldn’t help but hear the soft disappointment in your voice underscoring everything else.

the one time he tried taking pills, they reacted with the serum coursing through his veins and left him insatiable for the entire day. as fun as it was letting bucky fuck you in every corner of your apartment, you didn’t exactly want to replace your washer, sink, dining table, and bed frame again.

on his rare night off, as you glanced over at bucky sat next to you on the couch watching some movie that didn’t matter, you could tell that he was thinking about it again. he was anxious, and no amount of emotion shielding could hide the evidence — the small bounce of his leg, the lack of focus in his gaze, his hands clenched in his lap. he was afraid that tonight would end up like so many others.

you pressed your hand on bucky’s leg gently, stilling his movements with a deep sigh. he knew that you knew. “we don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to,” you whispered, rubbing bucky’s thigh soothingly.

bucky swallowed before meeting your gaze, half of his face illuminated by the tv screen. “but i want to,” he muttered lowly, giving you those pleading puppy-dog eyes as if he was perpetually apologizing. “want to…” he let out a low whine and curled in on himself slightly.

“james…” you sighed quietly, scooting closer to him on the couch. bucky immediately leaned into your warmth. he had never been overtly clingy in your relationship, so the small moments where he fully allowed himself to curl next to you often signaled something. knowingly, you reached forward to grab the remote, pausing the movie and leaving a silent tension in the room. you sat up and turned to look at bucky properly, his sad eyes refusing to make contact. “look at me, please,” it was phrased as less of a question and more of an order.

bucky’s gaze faltered — he glanced at you for only a moment before his eyes fell with a small grunt. “‘m sorry,” he whimpered as your fingers came up to cup his chin, pulling him from his hunched posture to come up and look at you properly.

“i want to, too,” you leaned forward just slightly, kissing his cheek just above where his stubble began, “we can, okay?” your hand continued caressing his chin as bucky’s lips parted with a small ‘pop.’ he blinked, seemingly considering your gentle words before nodding.

before he knew it, you were already smiling while maneuvering to straddle his lap. his eyes widened and his hands flew to grasp your hips. bucky’s breath hitched as you settled against him, the weight of your body and the warmth of your thighs on his lap sending a familiar, anxious tremor through his muscles.

“i — i don’t wanna… ruin it. you sure?” bucky’s voice was a low, shaky murmur. his metal fingers twitched before his forehead dropped to rest against your collarbone, breathing you in.

your smile was patient as your hands came up to rest on his broad shoulders. the air between you was charged, a fragile bubble of hope against the weight of his conscience. “of course i’m sure,” you sighed, resting a hand in bucky’s hair.

bucky immediately melted; a ragged sigh broke from his chest before his shoulders sagged, the tension beginning to bleed away under your touch. he tilted his head just enough for his cheek to be able to press against your palm as his eyes fluttered closed. bucky exhaled slowly, his breath warm against your skin as he leaned into your touch. his metal fingers flexed against your hip, the plates shifting with a soft whirring sound.

after a moment, his other hand, the human one, slid up your back with a tentative touch, fingers tracing the ridge of your spine through your shirt as if mapping a path he’d walked a hundred times but still feared he might forget. the hesitation in his movements wasn’t from uncertainty about whether or not he wanted this — that had never been the issue. instead, it was the quiet, gnawing dread that his body might betray him yet again, leaving him stranded in a limbo between desire and frustration.

you finally felt the shift when he lifted his head tentatively, his eyes dark with want and a twinge of hope. his lips parted, but instead of speaking, he pressed a wanton kiss to the inside of your wrist, his stubble lightly scraping against your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your arm.

“tell me what you need,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone, “we don’t have to rush.” you watched as bucky’s throat worked, the words seeming to get stuck somewhere between his ribs and his tongue. the small exhale he let out was uneven, and the room’s dim lighting caught the silver strands at his temples — a small reminder of the serum’s inabilities.

“just this…” bucky managed finally, his voice small. his flesh thumb brushed the hem of your shirt. “wanna make you feel good, even if —” the unspoken ‘even if i can’t’ hung heavily between you, and bucky’s fingers stilled against your skin, ready to pull away.

“hey,” you whispered, catching his wrist before he could retreat completely. your fingers slid down to lace with his in an attempt to ground him. his human palm was clammy against yours — despite the super-soldier metabolism, the poor thing still sweat through sheer nerves like a teenager on a first date.

a soft, understanding smile curved your lips before leaning in and pressing a kiss to bucky’s mouth that was filled with reassurance. your fingers still remained tangled with his; his lips were slightly chapped from biting them too much as a nervous tic, and he trembled faintly before finally sighing into the kiss. as the kiss deepened, your hips shifted against his, slow but deliberate.

bucky made a noise between a whimper and a groan as his metal hand tightened reflexively on your waist. the small sound he made echoed the sharp, familiar sting of frustration. you could tell almost immediately that he wanted nothing more than to prove that he could function properly for you. his expression was raw and almost boyish in his helplessness; a century-old super-soldier reduced to the quiet agony of desperately wanting something that his body refused to give him.

bucky whined as his jaw worked, his teeth grinding together as if he could physically will his own body into cooperating. “goddamn it,” he swallowed under his breath before pulling his human hand from your grip “‘m sorry, sweetheart. i just —” his breath stuttered, “wan’ fuck you so bad, make you come apart for me, wanna hear you —” bucky’s voice cracked with raw want.

he looked truly wrecked already, lips parted, hair mussed from where your fingers had been tangled minutes prior. his hips jerked up involuntarily against yours in a frustrated little thrust that had him biting back a groan. the self-loathing flickered across his face again before he buried his face back against your neck. “god, i hate this, wanna give you everything,” his words muffled against your skin as he whined. his metal arm whirred softly as his grip shifted, pulling you flush against him with a quiet, desperate noise.

you pressed a kiss to bucky’s temple, fingers carding through his hair. “you have no idea,” you hummed. your hand slid to his human wrist once more, this time guiding his fingers beneath the cotton fabric of your lounge shorts and into your underwear. bucky froze against your shoulder as he felt your wetness, inhaling sharply as his brain caught up with the sensation. “that’s what you do to me, james…” you moaned as you rocked gently against his hand a couple times.

bucky whimpered. he lifted his head, eyes meeting yours once more. “christ,” he rasped, “you’re soaked.” his thumb hooked over the waistband of your panties while his calloused fingers met your slick heat. the couch creaked in protest as you ground against his fingers once more, the gentle movement and the mere sight of you coaxing a ragged moan from bucky’s lips.

you continued to rock against his touch, biting your lip to stifle a moan when his fingers found your clit, circling with a clumsy, desperate need to please. “don’t stop,” you breathed, catching his wrist when he tried to pull back, instead guiding his fingers in their movement. “just like that, making me feel so good…”

he whimpered, the sound embarrassingly broken for a man of his power. his metal arm hauled you impossibly closer until you could feel the hammering of his heartbeat through your ribs. bucky made a wounded noise, his hips jerking up against you; for a fleeting second, his body ached with the sting of pleasure. he gritted his teeth. for the first time that evening, you felt the faint but unmistakable press of him through the fabric of his sweatpants. bucky’s entire body went rigid as if he was terrified to move in case the moment shattered.

“oh,” you murmured against his ear between moans, lips brushing the shell as your hand slid down to cup him through the soft material. his answering groan was one of disbelief. “that’s it, sweetheart. feels good, doesn’t it?” you cooed as you listened to bucky begin to allow himself to come apart.

he made a noise like a man drowning as his fingers stuttered against your clit. “s’not — not enough,” he managed, voice thick with frustration even as his hips twitched into your palm. his metal arm whined softly, the plates shifting relentlessly against your hip as if the limb couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.

“shh,” you soothed, index finger tracing his outline through the fabric. his breath came in short, sharp bursts as he mustered the courage to look down at your movements. “you’re doing so well, james. just feel it, yeah?”

bucky shuddered against your palm, eyes fluttering. “y’gotta stop talkin’ like that,” he rasped, “‘s unfair…” in his haze, bucky’s hips shifted under you, the movement uncoordinated and desperate. “i just —”

you didn’t let him finish speaking before confidently sliding your hand to the drawstring of his sweatpants. bucky made a strangled noise as you tugged, his fingers abruptly abandoning your heat to claw at the couch cushion beside his thigh. the second his cock sprang free, half-hard and already flushed, bucky’s eyes squeezed shut in a mixture of embarrassment and sheer need. “fuck,” he cursed, voice breaking as his metal hand spasmed against your hip.

you bit back a grin, giggling at the way his entire body twitched in response as you dragged one finger along his length. he looked so pretty — lips parted, lashes fluttering, breath shaky. you smiled as you continued teasing him with your finger so as to not overwhelm him, “see? knew we’d get you there.”

bucky’s breath wavered as your fingers finally curled around him, his hips jerking up into your touch. “jesus fucking —” he choked out, his voice cracking halfway through the word. he swallowed hard, his throat working as he tried and failed to form proper words. continuing to stroke him with delicate fingers, you watched the distinct way his lashes fluttered whenever your thumb brushed over the head of his cock. bucky suddenly whined loudly and desperately, all paired with the gritty noise of his fingers squeezing the couch cushion beside him for dear life. “please,” bucky choked out, his head lolling to the side, his forehead damp with sweat, “too much, babe, gonna —”

his voice cut off with a strangled noise as you shifted your body, lifting yourself just enough to grind against him. your hand gripped his bicep for leverage, and for a glorious moment, everything was heat and pressure and bucky’s breathless whimpers filling the air.

then, his brain caught up.

it happened like a switch flipping — one second he was arching into you with desperate little thrusts against the front of your shorts, and the next his body went rigid. bucky went completely still as you could practically sense the thoughts racing behind his eyes. it was too fast, too much, and not enough all at the same time. his expression crumpled, the pleasure draining from his face. wordlessly, he tried to pull away, his movements jerky, but you held him close, allowing his weight to fall against you.

the frustration radiated off of his body in waves. bucky’s cock was still half-hard against your thigh; the eagerness from earlier subsided as he caught his breath. when bucky finally spoke, he was quiet, his voice dry. “need…” he swallowed hard, breathing against you, “might — might help… if i was inside you.”

nodding, you gently pressed bucky’s body back against the couch cushions. “you sure?” you brushed strands of his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead.

bucky cut you off with a desperate breath, his hips stuttering in a silent plea. the way his body responded to yours was answer enough. his metal arm whirred as he reached down to help guide your shorts and panties to the side, his eyes thoroughly unfocused and blinking rapidly. the moment your pussy pressed against the length of his cock, bucky’s head fell back against the couch with a soft thud. he arched against you gently as you rocked against him as you had been doing before, now without the barrier of fabric between you. you continued rocking against him slowly, watching the way his jaw clenched and unclenched and how his breath came in ragged bursts. his flesh fingers flew to flex against your hip, his grip alternating between bruising tightness and featherlight.

“still okay?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his collarbone as you continued rocking back and forth slowly.

bucky groaned with a sob. “haah — yeah, something like that,” he joked, gently guiding your hips, “gonna kill me if you don’t hurry up, though.”

“easy, sergeant,” you smirked teasingly, reaching forward to brush your thumb over the tense line of his jaw. “i’ve got you.” you could feel the way bucky’s body thrummed with hesitation as your fingers wrapped around his length, gently guiding him to where you both wanted him to be. however, despite your efforts, the angle was all wrong — not quite enough friction to coax him inside. you stroked him a couple of times in an attempt to get bucky even ten percent harder as his face flashed with self-loathing. you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth while your hand adjusted the angle.

this time, you managed to press his tip inside your warmth, sighing as bucky made a noise like a man who’d just been punched in the gut; all the air left his lungs in one ragged exhale. “christ, babe,” he choked out, his voice strangled and thin, “s’like — fuck — so good… always so good…”

you sank down inch by torturous inch, watching the way bucky’s lips parted around quiet pleading sounds. his hips twitched with tiny, held-back movements that betrayed how badly he wanted to thrust up into you. his breathing was so shallow you half-expected him to pass out right under you.

“my sweet boy… taking it so well,” you muttered out a few teasing words to distract him as you finally bottomed out. bucky let out a broken, punched-out whine that would’ve made you giggle if it wasn’t so painfully earnest. he looked utterly broken — lips swollen from biting back, eyes glassy with overwhelmed pleasure.

“don’t move,” bucky gasped, and you could swear you heard the sound of his watery eyes blinking. “just — please — gimme a second, or i’m gonna —” he cut himself off with a ragged moan, hips canting involuntarily as your walls managed to pull him even deeper inside. he swallowed back yet another pathetic noise, and the way his cock twitched inside you suggested that his body had very different ideas about patience than his brain did.

you shifted experimentally with just with the tiniest roll of your hips, and bucky sobbed. he anchored himself with his hand on your hip, wordlessly begging you not to lift your hips for fear that he’d slip out. you responded by continuing to roll your hips with deliberate slowness. “there you go, buck,” the praise dripped from your lips like honey, “so perfect… always so good for me, aren’t you?”

bucky held himself so still against you, his cock twitching with desperation and a lingering sense of terror that this moment was simply too good to be true. you continued your grueling pace, refusing to give him the frantic movements he craved. his entire body tensed as you rocked against him, but you began to see the doubt creeping back into his expression — that familiar shadow of frustration threatening to swallow him whole. bucky’s flesh hand trembled where it gripped your hip; his fingers flexed once, twice, before sliding between your bodies with the kind of clumsy urgency that suggested he was barely holding it together. perhaps as a way to urge you to pick up the pace, bucky’s thumb made contact with your clit, and he let out a groan like he was the one being touched, his entire body shuddering beneath you.

thumb circling with a rhythm that was more hopeful than coordinated, bucky gasped as your pace quickened. “you feel so good,” you gasped, arching into his touch as you moaned.

“yeah? tell me — please,” bucky’s voice cracked when he spoke, rough with want. his words dissolved into a shudder as you rolled your hips just right, causing his head to tip back just slightly.

“nobody could make me feel like this, james — only you.” you pressed your forehead to his, smiling as bucky fell apart so easily under a little bit of praise.

“christ, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he managed, voice thoroughly wrecked. he gasped like he couldn’t believe his ears; it all made your stomach flutter and heart clench.

despite your increased pace, bucky continued moaning like he just needed more somehow. his cock twitched inside you, and you rewarded him by rolling your hips in a slow circle. you were getting close, and by the looks of it, so was he.

“fuck —” bucky swallowed hard, “y’gotta — please —”

you kept your forehead pressed against his, whispering through heavy gasps, “use your words, sweetheart.”

his voice broke. “need you to — fuck — faster, please, s’good, s’good — w’nna cum with you —”

you kissed bucky’s forehead as his thumb sped up, pressing harder against your clit with erratic movements as his control frayed at the edges. the air between you crackled with electricity, bucky’s cock twitching inside you with every ragged exhale. “let go,” you whispered, your voice thick with your own rising pleasure, “i’m right behind you… go ahead,” you attempted to sound put-together despite faltering a bit.

for one suspended heartbeat, bucky hung there, your permission registering in his own clouded mind. his eyes shut as he cried out, his hips jerking up into you as his release hit him like a freight train. with his last remaining thread of conscience, his thumb worked eagerly against you. bucky trembled severely, setting aside all of his insecurities for a singular moment. his aftershocks, the way his hips pressed up into you — they sent you spiraling over the edge right after him. you gasped out moans against bucky’s lips, kissing him as you both shook, overwhelmed and relieved.

after a long moment, you allowed yourself to slump against bucky’s metal shoulder as bucky’s chest rose and fell in uneven bursts beneath you. the silence between you was comfortable, but you could almost immediately feel the tension creeping back into his shoulders.

you pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, the stubble there tickling your lips. “you’re thinking too loud,” you murmured against his skin.

bucky huffed a humorless laugh before looking down to meet your eyes. “didn’t know you had superpowers.”

you sighed before sitting up, making direct eye contact with bucky. he yelped slightly at the movement, still sensitive. “listen, if you’re about to apologize for that stellar performance, i swear to god i’ll —”

“performance?” bucky’s laugh was sharper this time. “sweetheart, i barely even managed to —”

you cut him off by pressing a finger to his lips. “don’t even start.” your voice caused bucky to still.

for a second, bucky stared at you like you’d hung the moon in his sky. then, with a shuddering exhale (one to signify ‘you won’), he pulled you tight against his chest, his nose buried in your hair. his voice was muffled when he finally spoke: “my back’s gonna kill me after that.”

you snorted, the tension in the room breaking. “old man,” you teased.