#reader insert smut

Furniture untouched. Coffee gone cold on the counter. Your shared blanket on the couch still crumpled the way you left it, not him. It had been days. Maybe weeks. Time had begun to blur together in his absence.

This house — your home — used to carry his presence like a scent. Leather and spice, coffee and cedarwood. His cologne used to linger in the doorways. His boots used to thud softly on hardwood, his hums used to carry from the shower. But lately, the only things left were your own tired footsteps and the buzz of the refrigerator.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, stared at the closet that still held his clothes. Neatly arranged, untouched. They used to smell like him, like nights curled into his chest, like mornings when he wouldn’t let you leave without kissing your shoulder first.

Now they just smelled like dust.

Bucky had been swallowed whole by his work.

Some days, he was a reluctant public figure — shaking hands, attending briefings, forced into suits and speeches about reform and redemption. Most days, he was a weapon again. Deployed into fights with little notice, returning with bloodied knuckles and bruises beneath his eyes. When you touched him, he’d flinch just slightly — not from fear, but like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You understood. God, you tried.

You knew who he was. You loved who he was.

You promised yourself — again and again — that you could handle it.

The nights alone. The uncertainty. The ache of missing him.

Because you loved him too deeply to walk away.

Because you thought being Mrs. Barnes meant being strong enough for both of you.

But love had started to feel like an echo — something you screamed into the void and never got back.

What you felt now was loneliness.

A hollow ache, wide as winter, clawing at your insides every time another message came from Val instead of him. Another mission. Another country. Another time zone you didn’t belong to.

He’d always kiss you goodbye. Sometimes on the forehead. Sometimes just your hand. And sometimes… not at all. Just a silent glance before the door shut behind him, as if his guilt outweighed his ability to say goodbye.

And when he did come back, it was like he left part of himself behind.

His blue eyes — once bright, full of mischief and love and that impossible, boyish affection only you got to see — now looked dimmer. They didn’t rest on you with the same softness. They scanned you, checked you, but didn’t linger. As if he didn’t trust himself to look too long, in case it broke him.

When he held you at night, he trembled in his sleep.

When you kissed him in the morning, he didn’t kiss back right away.

He whispered I love you like it was a habit, not a promise.

So you reached for the wedding photo album. The one you kept high on the shelf, tucked behind cookbooks and board games you never played anymore.

You slid down to the floor with it. Cross-legged, as if you were still that giddy woman in love, waiting for him to walk in and steal a kiss.

The photos were intimate. Small wedding, barely two dozen people. Just the closest ones — Sam, Joaquin, and your parents’ photo in your bouquet. The two of you had danced barefoot in the grass beneath string lights, his vest long discarded, your shoes kicked off somewhere near the firepit.

In the pictures, you looked radiant.

So did he.

That little smile — crooked, cocky, only for you. His nose slightly sunburned, his metal hand resting over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You chuckled, but it came out hollow. A dry sound that hurt more than it comforted.

Your fingers traced the edges of one photo — the one where he kissed your temple, and you closed your eyes with a smile so wide your cheeks dimpled.

And suddenly, you remembered how you met.

───

Flashback:

The entire building blacked out, trapping you in a dim elevator lit only by the red emergency light. This happened often enough that you knew the bell button was useless; you’d have to wait for maintenance.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you’d just finished a late-night grocery run. You were stuck with a stranger — a man tall and broad, standing opposite you. His faded henley clung to his muscles even in the eerie red glow. His hair was short and neat, his stubble freshly trimmed. His sharp gaze pierced you but felt strangely warm.

“Want some grapes?” you offered, holding out a bag. He looked confused.

“I swear they taste like cotton candy,” you added, nudging the bag closer. Slowly, his guarded stare softened and he reached out with his gloved metal fingers.

“Oh,” he rumbled, voice low and rough. “They do taste like cotton candy.”

His guard dropped completely then. You talked about everything — your dog Percy who had just crossed the rainbow bridge, your chaotic job, your ex who’d burned through your savings on booze. You didn’t hold back; you were a talker, a sharer. And he listened, amused and content. For once, he wasn’t a hero or a soldier. Just Bucky.

Two hours later, when the elevator finally hummed to life, you walked toward your doors together. Nervous, you asked, “What should I call you?”

“Bucky,” he sneered softly. “I’m Bucky.”

───

You practically moved into his life. Your clothes filled his wardrobe. Your toothbrush hung beside his. You wore his oversized shirts, loved the way they draped over your curves. You cooked for him, greeted him after missions. You met Sam Wilson, who teased Bucky for smiling so much on FaceTime with you. Sam thanked you for lighting Bucky up again.

Your sex life with Bucky was electric — both with high drives, perfectly matched. When he asked you to marry him, you screamed “Yes” with joy.

───

You glanced at your phone. 3:50 a.m.

Ten minutes to four.

The dinner you made lay cold on the table. Roasted turkey with plum glaze. Mashed potatoes. His favorite black cherry pie.

You’d even worn the silk robe he once said drove him insane — the burgundy one that hugged your curves like a second skin. You had curled your hair, lit the candles, set the table for two.

It was your seventh wedding anniversary.

He had promised. Swore on your vows, on his mother’s grave. “No missions, no excuses, I’ll be home.”

But he wasn’t.

Not at 4 a.m.

Not at 7.

Not at noon.

It wasn’t until eighteen hours later that the front door finally creaked open. You were curled on the couch, still in the same robe, your makeup smudged and mascara dried into the pillow. The candles had melted down to nubs. The food had crusted over with cold.

You heard the boots first — heavy, limping, dragging.

And then you saw him.

James Buchanan Barnes, your husband. Bloodied. Bruised. One eye already purpling, a cut on his lip, blood trickling down from his temple. His vibranium arm was scorched in places. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and then some.

But he still smiled — weakly, brokenly, with his entire heart bleeding behind it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like the words couldn’t land. You sat upright and moved toward him on instinct — your heart betraying your numbness. He was hurt. And that muscle memory in your bones still knew how to care for him.

You didn’t speak as you led him to the kitchen. Just fetched the medical kit. The antiseptic. The gauze.

He sat on the stool, watching you with tired eyes, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something worse than shrapnel.

You cleaned his wounds in silence.

Your hands moved gently, methodically. But your eyes stayed distant. Detached. As if you were treating a stranger. As if you’d already started grieving the version of him that used to come home smiling, on time, with flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

When your fingers brushed his jaw to dab ointment onto the cut beneath his cheekbone, he leaned into your touch — starved for it. Your hand hesitated, barely a second, before you pulled it away.

“Love…” he whispered.

But you shook your head. Stepped back. Your robe had come undone slightly, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You just looked at him — really looked — and realized you were tired. So deeply tired.

He tried. God, he tried.

He came back the next day with a cake you didn’t touch. Flowers that wilted in the kitchen sink. A note scribbled on hotel stationery that said I’m sorry a dozen times.

But you were already drifting. Already far from him. Not out of hatred — no, it was worse than that. It was hollowness. That gray space where love used to live, now dusted in disappointment and absence.

That night, he crawled into bed beside you.

He didn’t take your nightgown off. Didn’t try to seduce or ignite anything. He just pulled you close from behind — spooned you like he used to when nightmares came — and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your nape, your arm.

They weren’t seductive. They were desperate.

Whispers without words. Promises buried in breath.

His arms locked around you like he was trying to fuse you back to him — as if, if he held you hard enough, long enough, you might forget all the times he didn’t come back at all.

His lips paused at the inside of your elbow. Pressed one final kiss there.

Then, without a sound, he exhaled — and let sleep take him.

You stayed awake.

Wrapped in his arms.

Drowning in silence.

───

Morning came with the scent of mushroom soup and toasted garlic baguette. You stirred awake to the distant clatter of dishes, the quiet hum of the stove, and the absence of his warmth beside you.

You’d fallen asleep curled in his arms — your face tucked beneath his jaw, legs tangled under the sheets. But now, the space was cold.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in soft joggers and a black t-shirt, hair damp. He was plating the soup with clinical precision, like it gave him something to focus on. Something other than the ache written plainly in his eyes when he saw you.

“Morning, doll,” he said softly, like the word itself might crack under the weight between you.

You nodded. Sat down at the small table.

And then the silence began.

You both moved through breakfast like strangers — chewing in syncopated rhythm, passing the butter with hesitant fingers, eyes never quite meeting. He stirred his soup without tasting it. You sipped your coffee like it was the only thing anchoring you.

The air was thick with unsaid things. Words sat like iron behind your ribs — but neither of you moved to break the dam.

Until the very end.

You were wiping your mouth, standing to rinse your plate, when Bucky finally found his voice.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked on the pet name. He paused — swallowing hard, like he needed to force the rest out. “I think… we need some time. Some space. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

You froze with the plate in your hand.

He reached across the table for your fingers — hesitant, trembling — but you pulled away before he could touch you.

A hollow laugh escaped you, bitter and breathless.

“If you say so, Bucky,” you said, voice flat and cold. “Maybe I wasn’t really made for you.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the pain flickering behind those steel-blue eyes — the kind that didn’t bleed, just quietly bruised.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t follow.

You packed your things with mechanical efficiency — toothbrush, spare clothes, the book you left on his nightstand. You left his hoodie folded on the bed and the ring in the drawer, tucked between receipts and mission notes. You took most of your pieces with you, but something in you stayed behind — still curled in that bed, still holding onto the man you loved.

And when you shut the door behind you, he stayed on the other side.

Silent.

Shattered.

Still too much Bucky to stop you, and not enough to ask you to stay.

───

Eight months later —

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a whisper through mutual friends. Not even from Sam.

You tried to move on.

You went out with friends. Swiped left and right. Let a stranger kiss you once at a bar — his lips were too wet and his hands too eager. You let another walk you home and never answered when he called again.

But none of them touched you like he did.

None of them held you like you were fragile and fire at once.

No one smelled like warm amber, cedar, and that faint, addictive trace of danger.

Your bed was too big. Too cold.

You cried yourself to sleep more nights than you could count, face buried in a pillow that still carried a ghost of his scent. Even the apartment felt wrong — full of your things but missing your home.

So you walked.

Miles and miles through the city, trying to chase your own shadow.

That morning was no different. Clouds hung low. Wind sharp.

You had your hands in your coat pockets, earbuds in, but no music playing. You just needed to be anywhere but inside your head.

Until—

The chaos hit.

Sirens.

Screams.

The city cracked open with noise — the grinding roar of steel collapsing, the screech of tires, the whoosh of fire somewhere not far from you. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone had dunked your head under water.

Your legs froze.

People screamed around you, bolting in every direction. Something exploded behind you. And before you could even process the danger—

You looked up.

A van — crushed and burning — was flipping in your direction.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You just stood there.

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you welcomed it.

The pain. The impact. The silence that would follow.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe it would finally stop hurting.

But instead—

The world cracked open with a clang so loud it split the sky.

Metal slammed against metal, the sound so sharp it vibrated down your spine.

You opened your eyes.

And there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your ex-husband.

Your ghost.

Your gravity.

Your everything that once was and never stopped being.

He stood between you and the van, his vibranium arm braced against the smoking wreckage, stopping it mid-roll. His boots skidded across the concrete, muscles taut beneath his tactical gear. The plates of his arm groaned under the weight, but he held steady — held for you.

His chest heaved. Jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, stubble thick along his jaw, blood streaked on his temple, and still — still — the second your eyes met, you forgot how to breathe.

His scent hit you next.

Smoke. Leather. Salt.

And underneath it, that impossible, familiar sweetness — like vanilla left too close to a bonfire.

Then he was on you.

Hands gripping your arms, scanning every inch of your face, your body, like he didn’t trust you were real. Like you’d vanish if he blinked. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was urgent — trembling, firm, searching.

His voice came out strangled. “Don’t you fucking dare die before me.”

Your knees buckled, but he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you against him — like he could absorb you into his skin. Like the world had come undone and only your heartbeat could put it back together.

You clung to him. You didn’t think, didn’t speak — just held.

His vibranium fingers slid into your hair. His human hand pressed to your lower back, clutching like he could keep you from fading. His forehead touched yours, both of you panting, trembling, suspended between collapse and salvation.

He whispered your name like it was a prayer.

Then — just like that — he pulled back. Gave you a look.

“Wait here,” he rasped.

His tone was low but commanding, that voice you used to hear in bed when he’d make you come with nothing but words. And like always, even now, even after everything, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

You nodded. “‘Kay.”

He turned and ran back into the fray.

You barely noticed the minutes passing — only that he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he couldn’t risk not checking. Like he needed to see you to breathe.

The fight ended quickly.

Some coordinated terrorist hit gone wrong. Bucky and the team had moved like a soldier possessed, taking down the last of them with clinical precision. When Valentina clapped him on the back, rattling off some smug line about his team's New Avengers status, he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

Locked.

He broke from the team without a word.

Crossed the rubble. Climbed over twisted steel and ash.

Until his hand reached for yours.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Fingers threaded. Palms locked.

He led you — fast but careful — through the remnants of the battleground. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just kept walking until he found what he needed: a shattered doorway tucked beneath a battered brick building. The inside was dusty, quiet. Safe.

He pressed you inside. His chest nearly heaving.

The second the door creaked shut behind you—

The dam burst.

He lunged.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave.

All teeth and tongue and need.

Your back hit the wall. His hands pinned you there, lips devouring like he was starving. Like every second of those eight months had built to this very moment.

Your hands tore at his jacket. Fisted into his shirt. Your mouth opened for him — let him take what he needed, because it was yours too. The ache, the hunger, the ache, the ache—

He groaned into your kiss. The sound wrecked you.

His vibranium hand slid to your throat — not choking, just holding — like he needed to feel your pulse. Needed to prove you were alive. His other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re fucking real.”

Your tears answered before your voice could.

He leaned his forehead into yours again. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. Every inch of him radiating tension, heartbreak, and sheer unfiltered love.

Then came the words. Quiet. Ragged.

“Come home.”

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just held tighter.

And followed.

───

The apartment door slammed shut behind you both, and the moment it did, something primal broke loose.

Bucky didn’t speak — he lunged. Hands everywhere, mouths crashing, teeth clashing like it hurt to be apart this long. His fingers tugged at your shirt so hard it ripped at the seams. You yanked his jacket down his arms, let it crumple to the floor, then pushed his dark shirt up and over his head — revealing the body that haunted your dreams for months.

“God, baby,” he breathed against your mouth, voice thick and broken. “Eight months. I was going insane.”

“Then show me,” you growled. “Fucking prove it.”

And he did.

───

He pressed you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. The first thrust was sharp and deep — a punch of heat that knocked the air from your lungs. He didn’t start slow. There was no space for slow. Not now.

You gasped as he slammed into you, his metal hand gripping under your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Your back arched against the plaster as he took you hard and fast, his mouth on your neck, biting down like he needed to mark you again. He whispered, “Mine,” over and over, like a vow.

You came quickly, clenching around him as he growled into your skin — hips stuttering, muscles tight as he spilled deep inside you, still panting your name.

But neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to yours.

“I missed you,” you gasped, breath trembling. “So fucking much, Bucky.”

His hand caressed your face. “I never stopped being yours.”

───

Moments later, he was dragging you to the bedroom.

He flipped you onto your stomach, kissing down your spine, tongue tracing the dip of your back. His voice was low, dangerous. “Gonna remind you how you sound when you scream for me.”

You felt the cool slide of his metal hand between your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was inside you again — slower this time, but deeper. He drove into you with devastating control, groaning every time you clenched around him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “No one else gets you like this. No one else can.”

You could only moan his name, clutching the sheets as he wrecked you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward, breath caught on every hard snap of his hips.

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train — you shattered beneath him with a broken sob, and he followed, grunting your name as he came again, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

───

You barely had time to recover before he turned you onto your back and kissed you breathless.

“Still not done,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse. “I haven’t had you in eight goddamn months, sweetheart. I’m taking my time now.”

He used his shirt to tie your wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate. His vibranium hand gripped your thigh and spread you wide, while the flesh one traced the curve of your belly and up to your chest. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “All mine.”

This time he entered you with a slow, torturous roll of his hips. He built you up until you were sobbing for him, body arching under his rhythm. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, whispering things he never got to say:

“I dreamt of you every night…”

“Couldn’t even sleep on my side of the bed…”

He kissed away your tears as he brought you over the edge, holding you through the tremble. He didn’t stop until he was coming again, voice raw and quiet. “No one touches you like I do. No one ever will.”

───

You made it to the bathroom — barely — stripping along the way. Bucky turned on the water, but before you could even step in, he spun you around and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t fury. It was need.

You were both soaked by the spray when he lifted your leg, pressing your back to the cold tile, and slid into you once more. Slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours. You held his face, ran your fingers through his soaked hair, watched his expression as he moved inside you like he never wanted to leave your body again.

It was messy and quiet. Wet skin slapping. Fingers clutching. Moans swallowed into kisses.

When he came this time, it wasn’t explosive — it was devastatingly intimate. He buried his face in your neck and whimpered your name, his whole body shaking.

You both stood under the water for minutes, breathing each other in.

───

He finally scooped you into his arms and gently lowered you into the already-drawn bathtub — the lavender oil you’d left behind still sitting by the edge.

You curled into his lap, the warm water surrounding you both like a cocoon. His arms wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. He massaged your thighs under the water, fingers tracing every mark he’d left.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered softly. “I didn’t mean to be that rough…”

“I needed it,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “Needed you.”

You leaned back into his chest, both of you quiet for a while, the sound of the water lapping gently around you.

“You're not leaving again,” he finally said. “Whatever it takes. You’re it for me.”

You nodded slowly, hand finding his under the surface.

“I know,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together this time.”

And he kissed your temple, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

you built up a sweet little community that was mostly sharing recipes that you've aquired over the years. viewers were impressed of how well you could handle spice despite your gentle demeanour, but you once said in a video that you had been eating spicy food your whole life!

"plus, my husband loves it too!" that was the big mystery of the account, who was mrs. riley's husband? viewers knew he existed and that videos occasionally were about making his lunches. but he had never showed his face in any video.

you thought the comments were cute, you'd often show them to simon while you were in his lap on the couch.

"they think that you're like christian grey."

"who the hell is that?" simon chuckled as he rested his head on top of your head so he could look down at your phone, "sounds like a real prick with a name like that."

another day, another video. you worked within the kitchen explaining the recipe. "you have to remmeber to add the spices before it all comes together or else it won't have time to mingle with the potatoes or the carrots. the taste will be all off!" you tone was like a bird's chirp as you had one hand on yourhip and the other stirring the pot with a spoon.

"my husband loves this! and i think who ever you make this for, wife, husband, boyfriend, partner, family member, friend, they'll love it too! but i suggest if you're making it for your nana that you tone down the spices a little!" you talked away as you continued to cook.

it filled the near silence in the kitchen and allowed you to keep viewers engaged!

but this video ended a little different. while you showed off finished stew in a pastel pink bowl, viewers caught the sight of him. hulking mass of man in a white t-shirt with a suspicious amount of red stained across it.

"girl, are you okay?"

"who is that?!"

"pack him a sandwich in the next video if you need help!"

"hey girlie, close your fist with your thumb inside if you're not safe!"

you were confused by the comments, simon wasn't a bad guy? he had never hurt a hair on your head. you've been trying to get him into more experimental kinky play in the bedroom!

you heard the door unlock and peeked out of the kitchen to see your husband coming home. you were use to grime he brought home, you met at the butcher shop his long time friend price owned. so a t-shirt stained with blood was nothing new. but then it clicked in your head.

oh they thought that simon was some kind of serial killer.

before you could say anything to your husband, he pulled you in for tight kiss and held you by the back of the head with his strong hand. you smiled against his lips and giggled when he picked you up. you wrapped your legs around his waist and held onto his shoulders.

you weren't the lightest thing in the world, but simon had spent most of his life hauling things (meat) heavier than you could ever be. he eyed you from top to bottom and smiled. his smiles were rare to others but frequent with you.

"how's my love bug today? makin' more videos for the fans." he asked as he carried you to the couch and put you down gently. he then leaned in to kiss you on the lips.

"yeah, they think you're a serial killer though."

his blond brows raised, "serial killer?"

you looked at him in return, "you were in the back of one of my latest videos, i didn't notice anything until i realized that you were in a work shirt and it looked like you were a serial killer."

"i see, i see." he said as he sat next to you and laced your fingers with his, "tell them i'm not, i don't need rumours to start." simon didn't like being the center of attention.

he once told you that he married the brightest woman he could find so she could be the center of attention and he could be supportive from the sidelines. it was why people gravitated towards you while being a little afraid of you towering husband.

you pulled him closer to you and kissed at his scarred face. he was an active service member before he became a butcher, so much history on his body and you loved every molecule of him. when you kissed him, he deepened the kiss and held both your hands.

"simon."

"let me take you to bed." he replied softly before he pulled you to your feet and then pulled you up into his arms bridal style. it took you a while to get used to him carrying you. not that you were worried about him not having a good hold on you, but rather you not having a good hold on him!

he brought you to your shared bedroom and placed you on the bed delicately. he then got his shirt up and over his head, exposing his strong body to you. he wasn't model trimmed, he was built with proper strength.

i ain't no pretty boy, dove.

but you thought your husband was the prettiest of them all. slowly you started to take off your dress, you could feel your husband's hungry eyes on you as you undressed for him. your viewers saw a sweet little wife, bu simon saw that sweet little wife totally nude.

when the mis-matched pair of bra and panties ended up on the floor with the dress, simon felt like a new man. he worked hard to provide for your family of two and would continue to work hard every day. you were his wife, his everything. and he loved you more than he could ever articulate.

so he expressed his love by getting undressed and into bed with you. laid out on top of the covers, your head in the pillows with simon between your legs.

"look at mrs. riley." he cooed as he rubbed his rough hands up and down your bare thighs, "prettier than those little cookies you make.' he chuckled a little, "boy at work watch your videos all the time, you've been a big help to them, finally able to cook for themselves." he went in to kiss you on the lips.

"glad i could help." you replied as you held onto one of the pillows under your head. you arched your back a little when he lined his cock up with slick entrance and pressed himself in.

he leaned forward and braced a hand up against the headboard as he got his cock inside of you. the issue with a size difference like yours, it made it a little hard to have sex in certain positions. usually you were on top, but since you got married you've been able to figure out missionary.

"honey."

"i got ya, dove. you feel so good as always." he said lowly, "everything i have ya, it's a complete treat. you take good care of me, you know that. you are a good wife. happy you're making your little videos, and i'm happier i get to come home to you."

you blushed a little bit and wanted to hide your face but he stopped you by pinning your hand to the bed.

"don't hide from me, dove. i want to see my wife's face." he said with his voice tinged with affection. he loved the sight of you, you were beautiful under him, he couldn't help but lick his lips at the sight of you.

"you make me blush too much." you said as he moved against you. your loving, caring husband moved his hips in a steady pace as he held onto your hand and the headboard. his thrusts were easy on you, not too rough but just enough to make you excited all over. you loved the feeling of him, there was just something about it that made you feel a twinge of excitement in your core.

he was a perfect lover and you loved him so much.

"all mine." he purred as he continued his movements. he watched your videos daily during his lunch break, happily eating the food you made for a video that morning or the day prior. the stews, baked goods and pasta dishes that you were known for.

your emphasis on couponing and how to store foods to make them last longer. it was an honour for simon to be with such a lovely woman. you encouraged food as a form of love. and you showed that love ten times over with simon.

he captured your lips and continued to move against you. he devoured the feeling of his lover up against him. you felt amazing, you felt like heaven. he couldn't help himself. he moved against you and continued to kiss you.

"work so hard every day, you work your ass off beautiful. and i love it, all of you. you know that. i can't get enough of you, how you feel against me. how i feel like our souls are connected."

you giggled, "no need to butter me up, handsome." you smiled when he placed another kiss on your lips. you moaned into the kiss, you eventually held onto his strong shoulders. you two moved against each other, husband and wife. quite the pair you were, and simon wouldn't want it any other way.

"baby." he cooed.

"shh, shh." you said, you opened your eyes and stared into his brown ones, he was so handsome. even when he tried to deny it, you knew the truth. he was quite the handsome man. the kind of man that made your toes curl with each hardy thrust of his hips.

the pleasure ran through both of you, the intensity of it made you kiss one another once more. he continued to work himself inside of you. live in each of this thrusts, affection in every movement. simon loved you and you loved him, hence why you held onto him so closely.

"oh, dove. look at ya. perfect for your husband." he cooed as he felt closer to his climax, it was an intense feeling. the kind of feeling that excited him greatly. he loved you and when he watched your pleasure reach its peak, he felt a swell of pride when you clutched onto him tighter.

"fuck, honey." you moaned as pleasure crushed down on you. you tensed up then relax, enjoying the feeling as it moved through you. you shared another kiss.

simon continued to work his body up against yours, and soon he finished inside of you. he rocked against you through his climax and then only broke the kiss when he stopped. he looked you in the eyes, those beautiful brown eyes.

you giggled lightly and pulled him in once more before he laid out on the bed beside you and held you in his arms.

"not too bad for a serial killer."

"yeah, i bet they'd never know that you're such a teddy bear." you dragged a finger across his strong chest and let out a small giggle. he felt so good against you. you soon sat up and said, "i have something i want you to try, i am working on a new recipe."

before you could get too far, he pulled you back into bed with him and wrapped his arms around you. he held you close and said, "whatever it is, dove. i bet it's amazing, but right now i just wanna hold ya."

-

the following day, on one of simon's days off. you set up the camera and stood beside your much taller husband. you were all smiles as you were ready to bake a nice spring treat.

"hello, love bugs! it's mrs. riley again, and today i have a guest!" you gestured to your husband. you whispered, "you'll need to crouch down a little." and simon bent his knees, "this is my husband, mister riley!"

you hoped that this would quell any concerns your fans might have. and while the comments were positive one made you blush.

"i used to think i had a crush on mrs. riley, but now i have a crush on mr. riley too!"

He doesn’t remember how he got here. Just the blur of asphalt under his feet, the taste of blood iron-thick in his mouth, the cold burn of night air against fevered skin. By the time he finds your door, his body is half-collapsing, half-carrying him forward on instinct alone.

The scrubs stick to him, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt and dried blood. He can’t stay away from you, even like this… Especially like this.

You answer the door, and he nearly folds right there on your threshold. Your gasp cuts through the haze, sharp enough to make his head snap up. Wide eyes, lips parted, he’s dying and you’re still looking at him like you don’t know whether to slam the door or drag him inside.

He knows what he looks like; pale, shaking, eyes flashing black whenever the Hyde claws too close to the surface, veins dark and raised under his skin, as if something feral is burning through him, trying to get out.

“Don’t… Don’t scream.” His voice cracks. His throat feels sandpaper rough, but the word that follows comes without thought, stripped bare. “Please.”

The air smells like you, the faint sweetness of soap, your skin, your home. It cuts through the rot of antiseptic and sweat clinging to him. For a second, his knees actually buckle. He has to brace on the doorframe to stay upright.

He hates it. Hates being weak. Hates you seeing him like this. But the second your hand touches his arm, cool and steady, his body almost sighs against you, like he’s been waiting for you all along. Not meds. Not revenge. Not the endless, gnawing hunger under his skin…

You. He needs you.

You drag him inside before his legs give out. He hates how heavily he leans on you, how easy it is for you to guide him when every muscle is trembling like it’s tearing apart.

The room smells like you; warm, sweet and safe. He feels wrong here in his filthy scrubs, dried blood on his arm, sweat soaked hair plastered to his forehead. Wrong, except your hands are on him, and that makes it worse. Better. Both.

You push him onto the couch. He collapses back, chest heaving, head tipped against the cushion. His eyes flutter shut before he can stop them, but then your hands are on him again, tugging at the hem of the thin green shirt, peeling the damp fabric up over his head.

Cold air hits hot skin, but the heat that follows is all you. A rag, wet and cool, swiping across his collarbone, down his ribs, wiping sweat, blood, dirt. He jerks under it like every stroke is too much, too sharp.

“Stop…” he rasps, hand shooting out to catch your wrist. His grip trembles, no strength behind it, but his fingers twitch like claws ready to dig. “You don’t… you don’t get it.”

You look down at him, calm but intent, your wrist caught in his shaking hand. “Then explain.”

His jaw locks. He can’t. Not without showing you what’s under his skin, what’s burning through his veins. The Hyde pushes closer, a shadow flashing in the corner of his vision. His chest heaves, breath coming ragged.

You pull free gently, not fighting. Just dip the rag again, press it against his shoulder, dabbing at sweat there. His head tips back. He can smell you. Soap and skin and something sweeter beneath it, and it spikes the hunger until his hands fist in the couch cushions just to stop them from gripping you.

You press the rag harder against his skin, and he groans low, shuddering. Not from pain, but from the way you lean in, the way your hair brushes his chest, the way he can’t decide if this is torture or salvation.

Every nerve in him is fire, every look you give him makes the Hyde pace inside his bones, rattling chains that no longer exist. And all he can think, over and over, is that no one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever looked at him like this, and if you don’t stop soon, he’s not going to be able to hold it in.

You wring the rag out again, water dripping down your wrist, and he watches it fall against his chest like it’s fire.

“You’re burning up.” 

“I'm not sick,” he rasps, eyes half lidded. “It’s worse than that.”

Your hand stills. “Tyler…”

He laughs, cracked and humorless. “You want the truth?” His chest heaves. “I killed my master, the one who controlled me. Ripped her out.” His lips twist, not regretful, just raw. “And now I’m paying for it.”

You blink, rag hovering over an old scar splitting his shoulder. “Paying how?”

His eyes find yours, fever hazy, black shadowing at the edges. “Hydes don’t live long without a master. It’s… decay. Like my body’s tearing itself apart, piece by piece. That’s why I’m dying.”

Your stomach clenches, but you keep dabbing at his skin, keep steady, even while his voice sinks lower.

“I don’t want another one.” His jaw locks hard, veins raised and dark under his skin. “I’d rather burn out than wear another leash. I’d rather die free.”

The rag slips in your hand. His fingers shoot out, catching your wrist again, hotter than fever now. His grip trembles, but his eyes bore into yours, wild and pleading.

“You get it, don’t you? You of all people, you understand what it means not to belong to anyone.”

The Hyde claws under his skin, his eyes growing wider, and he drags your hand against his chest like he’s begging you to anchor him. His heart hammers under your palm, too fast, uneven.

“I don’t want to need this.” His breath shudders, lips nearly against your knuckles. “Don’t want to need you.”

But his eyes tell the truth: he already does.

Your hand stays against his chest, steady over his racing heart. He can’t stop staring at it, at the way your fingers spread like you’re holding him together when he’s already splitting apart inside.

And then…Fuck. He smells it.

Not you. Not soap and skin and that sweetness that’s burned into his skull since the first time he touched you. Something sharper, masculine, clinging to the fabric of your sleeve.

Your ex’s cologne.

His body goes rigid. A snarl rips up his throat before he can choke it down. The Hyde claws harder under his skin, veins burning, eyes flickering. His grip tightens on your wrist until you gasp.

“You saw him.” The words grind out of him, half-growl, half-plea. “Didn’t you?”

You freeze. He knows he’s right. He can smell it. His rival, brushed too close, touched you, thought he still had a chance.

The fury tastes like blood. His cock twitches against the thin scrubs, shameful in how fast it spikes up, fury and hunger tangled until they’re the same thing.

He jerks you closer, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. His head falls back, baring his throat, veins throbbing dark under the skin. His hands are on your hips, claws threatening to break through his nails.

“Tell me you didn’t let him touch you.” His voice is ragged, Hyde bleeding through. “Tell me you didn’t let him put his hands on what’s mine.”

You don’t answer fast enough. The Hyde surges harder, his back arching, teeth clenched. He moves just in time for his claws to rip faint grooves into the couch beside your thighs.

“Fuck.” He shoves you back a few inches, terrified, breath tearing out of him. “Get off. Get away. I’ll hurt you.”

But you don’t move. You lean closer. You cup his jaw, thumb smearing sweat along his cheek.

And then you kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s desperate, clashing, your mouth crashing into his like you’re staking a claim back. His body jolts, his Hyde snarl breaking on a groan as his hands snap back to your hips, dragging you down against his hard cock.

No one’s ever chosen him like this. No one’s ever touched him when the monster was bleeding through. No one’s ever kissed him like he’s worth dying for.

The Hyde claws ease, just slightly. His vision clears enough to see you, lips parted, chest heaving. And he knows he’s lost.

You’re not afraid. You never were.

And it makes him want you more than ever.

Your mouth crashes against his again, and for a heartbeat he’s gone. His hands clamp down on your hips like he’ll bruise you, and all he can think is yes, mine, fuck yes…

But then he tastes you, the sweetness underneath, and panic punches through the hunger.

He jerks back, chest heaving, claws digging into the couch cushions instead of your skin. His eyes wide in the dark. “Stop. I can’t control myself. I’ll lose it. I’ll tear you apart.”

You don’t move. Your thighs tighten around his hips, your palms press to his chest. Calm. Steady. Defiant.

His cock aches under the green fabric, throbbing against you, but he tries to force it down, force himself back. “Get off me. Please. Before I can’t…” His voice breaks.

But you don’t. You lean in, brush your lips along his jaw, down to his throat where the veins pulse like live wires. He chokes on a groan, head tipping back, baring it for you even though the Hyde inside him screams for blood.

“You’re not scared,” he remarks, astonished. His fists clench tight, claws biting into his palms. “Why the fuck aren’t you scared of me?”

You kiss him again, harder, hotter, like you’re telling him the answer without words.

His vision blurs. You, straddling him, chest pressed to his, mouth claiming his; you’re everything. The Hyde doesn’t vanish, but it falters, confused, clawing at the edges while something else takes over: need.

Need for you.

His hands finally lift, trembling, sliding up your sides, not shoving you away this time, pulling you closer, desperate and starving.

The last thing he manages, before he caves completely, is a hoarse growl against your lips and when you roll your hips against his, grinding down on his aching cock, he knows there’s no stopping it.

You’re not afraid and that terrifies him more than the Hyde inside ever could.

You push him back against the couch, still straddling his hips. He feels your weight settle and it’s like a brand on his skin, his cock aching, pressing against you through the thin fabric of his pants.

His hands fly to your thighs, not to stop you, not even to guide you, just to hold on, to keep from tearing you open in one swipe when the monster claws at his chest.

It should make him snap. He wants it to, wants the excuse to shove you down, flip you, ruin you. wants to hear you sob while he fucks you raw until you can’t walk straight. Wants to mark you with his teeth, fill you until it leaks down your thighs for days, drag you back to him every time you try to run.

But instead you grind down on him — slow, teasing — and his whole body shudders. A broken moan escapes out of his throat. His cock jerks hard under you, shameful in how fast he’s unraveling.

The mirror across the room catches it all: his pale, sweat damp body, chest heaving; you above him, blouse slipping open, hair falling wild around your face as you straddle him like you own him. His shirt is gone. His hair sticks to his forehead. His eyes — blown wide, — stare hungrily at the reflection like he can’t get enough.

He should hate this. He does. He’s the one pinned, weak, wrecked and at your mercy… But fuck, the sight of you grinding on him, face flushed, lips parted, it makes his cock swell so hard it hurts.

Your blouse clings damp to your skin from the heat of his body under yours. He can’t stop staring at the way it slips off your shoulder when you lean forward, collar gaping, buttons strained. His claws twitch before he can stop them, snagging fabric hard enough that one button pops loose.

You don’t even flinch. You shrug the rest of it off, slow, deliberate, baring more skin to his fevered eyes. His breath stutters. Sweat glistens at the dip of your throat, catching the light, and he wants to lick it, bite it, worship it, ruin it all at once.

Your bra joins the blouse on the floor, and he nearly chokes. His hands move upward, then clench into fists against the couch instead. He doesn’t deserve to touch. Doesn’t trust himself not to shred you. But God, he wants to.

When your skirt rides up your thighs, when you shimmy it higher until it pools around your hips, his cock jerks painfully in the thin scrubs. He’s panting, staring, and when you tug his pants down just far enough to free him, he nearly blacks out.

He can feel the last barrier between you against his skin ; your panties. Thin, stretched, clinging damp to you from how wet you already are. His breath rasps out, broken. He doesn’t even think.

The fabric shreds, claws snapping through delicate lace like it was nothing. He sighs as he yanks the ruined scrap away, tossing it somewhere behind him. The scent of you hits him full force, hot and slick, and his cock twitches violently against his stomach. 

You take him in then, sink down slow until he’s buried inside you. His vision goes white. His nails score red marks into your skin as a guttural moan rips out of him.

“Fuck…” His hips jerk helplessly, but you set the rhythm, rolling slow, deep, cruel. Each thrust drags broken sounds out of his chest, makes the couch creak under him.

He watches you ride him, your body grinding down with filthy grace, his wrecked, desperate body beneath you. He hates how much he loves it. Loves how much he hates it.

You lean forward, palms flat on his chest, pinning him down. He snarls, head snapping forward to bite your throat but at the last second he pulls back, Hyde too close, terrified he’ll rip instead of mark.

“I should flip you, break you open, fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.” he groans, voice shaking with feral hunger. His hips snap up under you, chasing, almost in spite of himself. His eyes flare black, his body trembling under you like he’ll split apart but your hands stay steady on his chest, your body taking him deep, over and over.

And Tyler realizes, in this filthy, humiliating moment, that he’d let you kill him like this. Just like this.

You sink down onto him, and his brain whites out again. His cock buried deep inside you, squeezing a moan out of your chest.

“Fuck. You feel… God, you feel too good.”

You roll your hips, slow and merciless, grinding him so deep his vision blurs. His body convulses under you, desperate for more, desperate for everything. His hands fly to your hips, claws threatening to break your skin as he drags you harder down on him.

Every bounce, every grind makes his chest tighten until it feels like his heart’s going to split open. He should flip you, slam you into the cushions, fuck you like the monster snarling under his skin wants to. He should ruin you so badly you never even think about anyone else again.

But you’re on top, taking what you want, owning him… And he fucking loves it.

You lean over him, hair brushing his sweat slick chest, and he snaps, mouth crashing into yours, tongue filthy and desperate. His teeth catch your lip, hard enough to sting, and his groan vibrates right into your mouth.

“I hate this, being weak and restraining myself,” he says, his claws digging crescents into your thighs, dragging you down harder, his breath breaking into snarls. “But fuck, you’re killing me and I want more. I love it.”

The words tear out before he can stop them, raw and broken. Love. He wants to snatch them back, bury them but you moan into his mouth like you heard exactly what he meant, and it makes him crazy.

He bucks up into you, savage, his scrubs slipping low on his hips, his cock pushing deeper with every thrust. Your walls clench around him, squeezing tight, and his eyes widen again, monster breaking through. He chokes on a roar, shoving you back just enough to gasp, “Get off… I’m losing it.”

But you grab his face in both hands, slam your mouth to his, kiss him hard enough to ground him. His Hyde stutters, claws curling back, his body bowing under you as if your kiss chains him tighter than any master ever did.

And then you start riding him harder, faster. Your nails dig into his chest, your thighs slap against his hips, and the monster’s gone. Totally gone. His head tips back, eyes rolling, groans spilling out filthy and desperate.

“Fuck, you’re perfect. Look at you riding me, owning me, fucking mine.” His voice is hoarse, guttural, growl blending with the words. 

Your climax rips through you first, squeezing around him so tight he loses it. He snarls, half-scream, half-moan, nails tearing at the couch as his hips buck up to bury his cock deep inside you one last time. Hot release spills out, filling you, his body freezing under yours like he can’t control it anymore.

He collapses back, chest heaving, sweat slicking every inch of him and all he can do is stare at you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. You don’t move right away. You stay on top of him, breath stuttering, shaking, his cum leaking out of you in hot rivulets. His chest heaves under your palms, every inhale jagged, like he’s still fighting to hold the monster back.

You shift slightly on his lap, thighs trembling, and he feels the mess he’s pumped into you, dripping down some more, sticky and hot. His breath hitches, claws flexing against your skin, obsession flaring sharp. And then you do it. You drag two fingers down between your thighs, gathering the slick mess of him, and lift it slowly to your lips.

His brain shorts out. A curse rips out of him, strangled, helpless. His hips jerk weakly under you, cock spasming in aftershock. 

You lick your fingers clean, eyes on him the whole time, and his vision blurs with heat. His stomach knots, a bestial groan clawing out of his chest. 

“You’re killing me,” he repeats, voice wrecked, almost begging. 

You don’t stop. You smear what’s left across your stomach, over the marks his claws left there, glistening in the low light, deliberate and unhinged.

For him.

And Tyler loses it, his teeth snap sharp against your throat, a growl tearing out of him so guttural it shakes the couch. His whole body bows up under you, trembling, undone.

You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up. His eyes are glassy, ringed faintly black, but soft… Softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“I can’t breathe without you. I’m supposed to burn out without a master, but… fuck, you’re the only thing keeping me alive.” he whispers, clutching your hips tighter. 

He presses his mouth to your throat, open and messy, like he’s trying to worship even through his wreckage. His tongue lingers, tasting sweat, tasting you. Your hips shift, and he shudders under you, cock sliding weakly inside your slick heat even though he just emptied himself. 

His teeth catch your skin, biting hard enough to sting, leaving fresh marks. His hands spread wider, fingers digging bruises into your thighs, holding you in place. You press your forehead to his, breath mingling. His lips brush yours, softer this time, but still trembling, reverent and desperate all at once.

“Mine,” he whispers, even weaker now, chest rattling. 

And for the first time, it isn’t just filth in his eyes. It’s worship. It’s awe. It’s something closer to love.

☕ If you enjoyed the chaos, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤

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