lorelai

You've been hired as Michael's personal nanny for around 8 months — nearly a year. You enjoy it a lot, playing Jenga with his kids all night long, then tucking them in bed with a little story you made up. Even doing the dishes was enjoyable. Also, not to mention that Michael's house was huge, he had countless rooms for each of his specific niches. Sometimes when everyone's gone to sleep, you'll sneak out of your bed & snoop around each of the rooms, just out of curiosity. Your house is so small, so being here is like being on holiday. Although when he’s away touring or just busy, you’d miss his company.

Michael’s been so very kind & just to you ever since you've been working for him. You protested to him that you didn't even need a room at first, that you could just sleep on one of his couches. The idea irritated him.

"I'm not having no lady sleep on a couch, you'll sleep in a proper room, your own. I'll make it real nice for you." He'd say.

& he did. You told him you loved baby pink, so he'd hire someone to paint the walls pink, install clean white coving & put some pretty floral sheets on your bed with a little vanity installed across the room. You were shocked when you saw your bed was king-sized.

“This is too much Michael…”

“It’s the least I could do to thank you.”

You aggressively scrub the stains from tonight's dinner off the bone china plates as you do the dishes, your hair tied up in a messy pony with a tight polka-dot white apron on. Soft rain taps on the kitchen window, the draft of air from the opening crack hitting your face blissfully. You overhear the soft mumbles of Michael & his children a few floors above you as he puts them to bed.

“Goodnight, Daddy. Love you.” They say in their sweet little voices.

“I love you guys too. Sleep well now. Busy day tomorrow.” You hear Michael say.

You smile to yourself, continuing to scrub as you hear heavy footfall coming down the stairs. You straighten your back & flick the hair out of your face. You hate to admit it, but you think you’re starting to develop a little something for Michael. Any little thought you have of him that’s mildly inappropriate, you push it away instantly. You’re a professional after all.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you hear a soft voice mumble behind you.

You turn to see Michael propped up against the doorframe with his hands behind his back. His eyes were dark and worn from the intensity of the day. He’s wearing a loose linen white shirt paired with baggy grey sweatpants & his glasses. You only really see him wear them in the evening, you secretly love them.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all. It’s my job after all, right?” You chirp sweetly as you continue to scrub, a little gentler now.

You always try to appear perfect around Michael, sweet & polite at all times. Not because it’s part of your job to maintain a modicum of respect, but because you want him to like you personally. He’s such a huge public figure, a star — the thought of being close to him excites you.

“I know.” He says, taking the wet plates you’ve washed & drying them off. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman. So nanny or not, it never sits right with me for a woman to be doing all my dirty work, y’know?”

You nod softly, giving him an understanding smile as you continue to lay wet plates on the rack.

A few minutes pass of you & Michael cleaning & drying the dishes together, mindless small talk floating in the air. It'd been a long day for you, the weather was burning hot, which automatically made you sluggish, & the children were constantly begging for your attention while you attempted to do 1000 other tasks at once. So surprisingly, doing the dishes with Michael in the cool of the temperate evening soothed your nerves.

You passed Michael the last remaining dish as he dried it off, placing it in the cabinet with a clank. You pull the plug as you watch the soapy water collect down the drain, feeling Michaels eyes on your back.

You turn around with a loud sigh, attempting to fill in the awkward silence that hangs in the air while you two share a glance, just smiling.

"Well," you cut in, wiping surplus water off your manicured hands on your apron, "you tucked the children into bed?"

Michael takes his glasses off in one swipe, hanging them on his shirt opening.

"Yes I did, they'll sleep tight. I know they bothered you a lot today, they can get pretty active, so i'm sorry about that." He chuckles softly, the sound sending a mere tingle to your belly.

You two haven't had a proper two-on-two conversation since the morning started. After that, tasks had to be done, errands had to be run, so you two never got the chance to really talk. You shake your head with a reassuring smile, your cheeks a little rosy.

"I understand that constantly playing with children can be hard & tiring, especially when you don't want too but,"

You untie your apron from behind, placing it on the counter top. Michael's eyes fall to your waist instinctively, crossing his arms & shifting his feet.

"I like playing around y'know? I find it fun. I like my job." You smile, showing off your pearly whites.

Michael nods slowly, trying his hardest to keep his eyes on yours & not gawk like a pervert at your tanned legs n' thighs under your sundress.

"Good," he said gently. "You know I'd hate to think you're only staying because the pay's decent."

You let out a little giggle from his comment.

"If I didn't like being here I'd be gone by now, trust me."

Something about your comment seemed to please him by the look on his face; he liked having you here. Not because you were doing most of his work for him or taking extra care of his children, but because he liked you. Secretly, he liked having a sweet piece of ass around the house 24/7. He'd never tell you that, though; he's a gentleman after all.

Michael clapped his hands together, turning around to open the cabinet behind him full of all different types of liquor. You watch him pull out an expensive looking bottle of pinot, holding it in front of you.

"its's been a long day, how do you feel about a glass of wine? Do you drink?" He asks.

"Occasionally, yes." You mumble, taking the bottle from his hand as you analyse the label intently.

"Great."

Michael takes 2 slim wine glasses from the bottom cabinet as you read the label, you forget how wealthy he is. The wine you drink is nowhere near as rich as this.

"Burgundy Pinot Noir? Seems nice."

Michael hums in agreement as you pass the bottle back to him. He pops open the cork, the soft glug of wine filled the silence as he tipped the bottle. Deep red swirled into both glasses, a little more than you'd usually drink of an evening. You take a quick peek at his back before he turns to pass you the glass; it's lean & broad. His back bones n' muscles stretch his shirt a little. You feel your bottom lip pull in a little before you stop yourself.

"Here," he turns to hand you a glass, "I hope this isn't too much."

You take the glass & swirl it around a little, smelling the rim. It's rich, fruity, & sexy. The scent travels straight down in-between your legs.

"No it's not. I enjoy your company," you say.

"I meant the contents of your glass," Michael laughs as he takes a short sip, his pearly whites shining.

You feel your face burn up a little from embarrassment, chuckling to yourself.

"Oh! no, this is perfect. The amount is perfect." You reiterate.

Michael smiles to himself, the innocence of your embarrassment flattering him. Sure, you're a full-grown adult, but you have this innocence about you that he picks up on. Your sweet floral scent when you pass him by, or your cute coordinated outfits you pick out every day. He'd always love seeing you in those little sundresses that revealed the smooth of your calves & chest. He'd feel guilty for thinking of you like that, but he couldn't help it. He finds you immensely beautiful & special, he can't help but wonder who gets to enjoy you.

"You wanna go to the front room? Might be a little more comfortable to sit down," he questions, starting to move towards said room.

"Yeah sure, good idea."

You follow him to the front room. It's lit up dimly with a singular chandelier & scattered candles around the room in various places. He usually does this after he puts his children to bed —  relishes in his solitude. You never really got the chance to share this opportunity with him. You'd usually go to bed around this time too but since the day was drawn out longer than usual, he caught you just in time. The room smells of him, with notes of incense. You feel your heart rate pick up, for what reason you don't know.

"Do you do this often?" You say, taking a seat on the couch as he follows, plopping himself down a little too close to you, so close you can smell him.

Michael leans back on the arm of the couch, one hand wrapped around the back cushion while the other holds his glass. You swallow, your legs neatly closed as you sit upright, holding your glass with both hands in front of you. You don't know why you're nervous. You've spent time with him before, but this time just feels different. Maybe it's in your head, you try to relax.

"Drink wine?" he questions.

"Invite your employees for a drink after work kinda thing," your voice sweet in comparison to the deepness of his own. You've noticed it gets lower in the evening, perhaps from his lack of energy.

"Uh, sometimes yes. But if it makes you feel better, I enjoy your company the most." He says softly. "Not only do you do a lot around here, but you've got a lovely personality. Im grateful to have you in my home, truly.”

You smile warmly. The thought of your presence being accepted in his home makes you warm.

"Thank you, Mr Jackson. Means a lot." You take another sip, you feel your head start to become weightless, a little more ditzy. You've never been good with your alcohol.

"Oh, & I've been meaning to tell you, please don’t call me that." He pleads, placing a hand on his chest sincerely. "Call me Michael. My father used to make us call him Joseph; it's not the way it should be."

"Well, thank you, Michael. It means a lot." You say, pressing your thighs together a little harder than usual.

“No, thank you.”

A solid 10 minutes pass by of you & Michael sharing each others company, growing closer & closer by the minute, learning more about each other with each sip. Before you knew it, the conversation was drifting from topic to topic without paying any attention to the appropriateness of it. You were both too far gone, only a quarter of your wine left.

"You ever think you'd be somewhere completely different by now?" you questioned. Your body now slouched into the couch, one leg thrown over the other.

Michael stared at you a little longer, his eyes half lidded n' hazy as he tries to understand your question before answering.

"Different how? Like marriage?"

You shrugged, your lips pouty n' stained a deep red from the wine. Your eyes slightly drunken. The state of you making his cock twitch in his pants.

"Yeah, marriage. You never wanna get married? I don't see a ring on your finger," you slur, pointing to his hand.

Michael blushes, scratching his head.

"No, I do. I wanna get married. I've been married, I've had a lot of experience in that sector, but it never works out, y'know."

You nod, a sympathetic look on your face, "I'm sorry about that."

"It's okay. Well, and you? you've never been married?" He asks, sliding a hand through his thick black hair. Part of him inside is smiling at the fact he's able to find out more about you. He didn't ask you to drink with him for that specific reason, but the line is starting to blur.

"No never. I've had a few boyfriends but...they also never worked out. I've never been happy with someone. In all ways."

"So you've never had a serious man?" He inquires, subconsciously sitting up. Now more intently focused when it comes to your love life.

You snicker into your glass, your teeth clanking against the delicate material, "None worth writing home about."

His eyebrows raise in surprise, taking a final sip of his wine before placing the glass on the coffee table beside him.

"Thats very hard to believe."

You furrow your brows with a little tantalising smirk, inching him to elaborate.

"Well you're beautiful," he gestures a hand at your figure. "Smart, good with children. I would've thought somebody would've appreciated you enough to keep you by their side by now."

Tingles n' heat creep up into your cheeks, your lashes fluttering with nerves as you force yourself to smile & thank him.

"Thank you." Is all you can manage.

"Why do I get the feeling every guy you've dated has been a total dimwit?" He whispers. His irritation rising knowing no man will ever take care of you the way he knows he could.

You chuckle, "You'd be right then."

His eyes never leave yours, "What, did they just never treat you right, Is that it?"

You hesitated a little, lips moving to say something but then faltering. Your lips stay around the rim of your empty glass. Michael noticed your hesitation instantly.

"What? Come on!" he teases you, giving your knee a soft nudge.

"No I cant, it's so embarrassing." You laugh, stretching your hand to put your glass down on the table.

Michael points at himself, his face straight all of a sudden.

"Embarrassing? Do you know the amount of embarrassment I had to go through in my career?" He snickers.

He shifts to sit up more, counting on his fingers, "Pepsi Incident, false accusations, women not liking me back. Countless things! I can go on-"

"Okay, okay." You start, pinching your eyes together with your fingers, your cheeks practically on fire at this point.

Michael goes silent instantly as he waits, his hands wrapped around the couch again.

“I’ve just never been satisfied, sexually. I find that important in a relationship.” You come out.

“You what?” He laughs breathlessly, taken back.

The thought of what you're saying to Michael right now doesn’t even register in your brain. You’re just talking, completely relaxed. It’s a nice feeling, yet a little risky to your relationship.

“I’ve never got there.” You close your eyes.

Michael’s lips fall agape as you confess to never having an orgasm. Not knowing what to say. He can’t help but ask more questions, as less perverse as possible.

“Not even…alone?” He says barely above a whisper.

You shake your head slowly, letting your head fall into your hands as you laugh to yourself, completely exposed & vulnerable. You’re drunk, yet after saying it it’s like you’ve sobered up. You're regretting it. You press on, trying to explain yourself.

“I’ve heard my friends talk of it about their relationships, even alone. But I’ve just never been able to, let alone with another person. So there you go, that’s my secret.”

You reach for your glass before realising it's empty, not knowing what to do with your hands. You just keep your head down, avoiding eye contact. The silence is unbearable, the room is practically choking you from how small it feels. Michael doesn't answer right away, though you feel the burn of his stare on you. You cant tell if it's sympathy or judgement. The confusion is killing you. You decide to look up at him momentarily, he's already looking into your eyes. He didn't look shocked or amused, he was just looking at you.

"Wanna know how it feels?" He says, his voice an octave lower.

Your eyes shot up at him, your heart racing so hard you swear he can hear it.

"What do you mean?" You mumble pathetically, your face like a deer in headlights.

"I mean do you wanna know how it feels? just a question, truly."

His poker face isn't telling you jack, it's like he's left you to interpretation. You straighten your back, trying to appear confident.

"Uh, yes. Yes I do."

Michael scoots a little closer to you on the couch, his knee brushing yours. You can tell he's trying to seem as natural as possible. You watch him through half lidded eyes, trying to keep your balance upright as you're a little tipsy, so is he.

"You're a kind girl, I cant help but feel genuine sympathy for you. You mean to tell me you've spent all this time wondering what it feels like?"

You clear your throat, crossing your legs as you give him a little nod.

He pouts a little, "& how far would you be willing to go?"

"How far would I be willing to go for what?"

"To feel the one thing no one has ever made you feel."

You think to yourself, the number of times you'd feel terribly aroused at home, knowing you need some sort of release but not knowing how to deal with it. Or the sickening envy you'd feel hearing your friends talk about the way they came so hard they cried. Or even just your string of bad dates that included horrible sex. You hated it; you felt like a child.

You nod, "Far."

"Let me help you then." He snaps with no restraint. You look at his face, searching for any sign of unseriousness. You don’t find anything.

You feel a pulse start to build up in your cunt at the mere thought of Michael helping you. You work for him, you think to yourself. The taboo nature of the idea arouses you, yet you try to let your morals win.

“Help me with that?” You say below a whisper, saying it out loud feels like a crime. “I don’t think that’d be right, I work for you.”

“I know you do, but I’m only trying to help. It stays in this room. Only if you’re willing.” He says, his bottom lip drawing in at the possible reality.

“But what will I tell people-“

“You don’t have to tell anyone anything. This is supposed to be private. Just a person helping another person hm?”

You let the thought ponder in your head, you remember you’ve had fantasies of this man. You’d wake up in hot sweats from multiple sex dreams of him lapping up your pussy with his tongue, only to beat yourself up for it afterwards. The frame of his body, his hair, those sexy pair of eyes that threaten your self respect everyday.

“Teach me.” You nod innocently, your voice laced with a mix of desire & hesitation. You knew deep down you wanted him bad.

“You sure?” He says, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

“Yes, I want too. I want you to make me feel it.” You scoot forward, blinking rapidly from excitement.

“Take your hair down,” he says, rubbing your shoulder gently.

You follow his command, letting your hair down out of your clip, placing it neatly on the table.

“Good, now just relax okay? you look tense. That’s not gonna help either y’know?” He cooes.

You nod along like you have no brain of your own, completely in his mercy. You like being told what to do, not having to think.

Michael’s now close & facing you, softly rubbing your smooth arms to try & relax you — prepping you. His eyes fall to your lips, ripe & agape. Just begging to be kissed n' licked.

Without any warning, he leans in & presses his lips to yours, automatically moving his hands to cup your jaw; your skin burns under his touch. He proceeds to slide his tongue between your lips, asking for permission to be let in. You hum, allowing him. With no time to waste, you feel him enter your mouth, his tongue dancing with your own, warm & wet. You mewl into the kiss, your brows pressing together as the ache in your core grows larger. You place your hands on his shoulders & squeeze, forcing yourself to have a mind of your own.

"Mhm, there you go. Just go with the flow." He mumbled, his words barely audible, muffled by your puffy lips.

He breaks the kiss, leaving you pouting in loss of contact. Strands of hair stick to the wetness he left on your lips.

"What happened?" You say, your eyes blown out.

"Nothing," he chuckles, "Just relax & lay back, can you do that for me?"

"Mhm," you slowly lay back on the couch cushions behind you, keeping your legs together as your hands remain on your lap. It's like you've been fantasising about this moment, but when it comes, you get all shy. You can tell he's getting off on it by the bulge growing in his sweatpants, but you pretend not to notice.

"Face me, baby." He says, turning you in his direction by your waist. You feel your pussy grow wetter & wetter by the second, your thoughts clouded by the unrelenting desire for his touch down there.

His calloused hands run down from your thighs to your knees, "gonna open now okay?" he whispers, peppering a little kiss on your collarbone.

You nod, keeping your doe'd eyes on him as he slowly pushes your legs open, your sundress riding up as he does so. A few more forced pushes of your legs & they're completely open. Your pink cotton panties stained with a dark circle in the middle from your arousal. You hear him whisper profanities under his breath as he stares at your clothed pussy, your lips showing a little through the material.

"Pink really is your favourite colour, so damn pretty." He purrs, caressing the inner skin of your thighs. The rough texture of his palms against the smoothness of your skin causing little mewls to fall from your lips. He's here to help you, yet the stiffness of his cock keeps betraying him.

Michael places a gentle hand against your chest, "Breathe, baby."

You realise how hard your heart is beating, you can't tell if it's from nerves or pure arousal but you attempt to steady your breathing.

"Sorry, I think I'm just really turned on." You shudder.

Michael caresses your jaw, "Thats the most important factor."

He leans down, placing light little kisses on your thighs & knees. You tremble from the contact. He holds one of your feet with one hand, kissing your perfectly manicured toes as the other hand rubs on your the curve of your ass.

"Please touch me," You beg, giving your pussy a little stroke to signal to him where you want it.

He gently slides his middle & index finger up your wet slit, your arousal totally soaked through the cheap fabric of your panties. Your mouth falls open with no sound at first, just pleasurable shock. The feeling of the tips of his fingers grazing over your clit making you squeak like a slut.

Michael presses a finger to your lips with his free hand, "Try to be quiet okay? I know it's hard." He orders.

His cock is throbbing like a ticking time bomb under his sweatpants at the sight of you all drunken & horny in front of him, legs splayed open waiting for him to help you.

"Mm, sorry." You mumble under his finger, trying to keep your eyes out of the back of your head as he continues rubbing softly.

He tugs at the side of your panties, moving them to the side slowly to reveal your glossy folds. There might as well be a twinkle In his eye as he stares.

"Damn," He breathes out, giving your swollen clit a rub with his thumb.

You arch your back immediately, covering your mouth as he rubs your clit tantalising slow.

"Fuck, Michael. I swear It's never felt that good." You gasp, drawing your bottom lip under your teeth painfully hard.

He smiles, his ego rising from your comment. He proceeds to rub in small circles with his index & middle finger in a steady rhythm, gathering your juices from the bottom to rub all over your clit.

"Let's get this down," he says to himself, pulling the upper half of your dress down with one hand, letting your perky tits fall free. He gawks at the view, forgetting this isn't about him — it's all about you.

You feel heat rise in your face again, you've never felt so exposed & horny in your life.

He gropes the curve of your breast with his free hand, rolling your nipple through his fingers as he continues his work on your pussy.

"Feeling good, ma? You need to tell me."

Your head falls back on the arm of the couch as you nod, your stomach twitching from the pleasure as you try to stop your moans from erupting — you're soaked for him.

"Feels so good Michael," You cry out. The muscles in your thighs starting to clench as you chase something you don't even know what.

He takes his hands away, unbuttoning his shirt in a frenzy as he tosses it on the floor. He comes back, though this time you feel 2 slender fingers slowly slide in you, curving just right.

"Oh my god," You whine, your eyes falling into your head.

He continues to roll your nipple between his fingers with his free hand, all while kissing you simultaneously.

Your body wasn't the only thing he'd ogle at, your lips were insanely arousing to him too, he didn't know where to touch or kiss you now that he had you like this.

Your hand snaps into his hair, grabbing on for dear life as you feel yourself begin to tremble & shake, he feels it too.

"Michael? Something's happening." You whimper, your brows pressed tight as you look at him for an answer, your eyes glossy.

"Thaats it," he encourages you. "You feel it baby? I ain't stopping."

Immense pressure coiled tighter inside of you, every breath becoming harder & harder to catch the more he fingers you perfectly on your g-spot — no one's ever hit the right spot, yet he seems to know exactly where you like it.

"Michael, Michael!" You cry.

"Yes," he hisses, "Let go." He leans down.

You feel his supple mouth latch onto your pussy, lapping & sucking gently on your sensitive nub as he continues to curl his fingers into you. You break immediately; the tension that had been building for minutes reaches a point where it feels unmanageable. The coil in your belly snaps, something in you lets go, your muscles tightening as your pulse thunders in your ears with blind spots covering your vision.

You squeal as you cum on his mouth, your eyes pinched shut as you tug on his hair for support. Once you had the energy to lift your head & come back to life, you look down at Michael, the lower half of his face glistening with your juices as he pants, smiling at you warmly. He sits up, licking n' sucking his fingers like a child with candy.

"Thats an orgasm," He smirks, a cocky look on his face. He brings a finger to your mouth, "Taste yourself, you did that."

You hesitate before latching your mouth around his finger, sucking on it looking at him. You taste sweet, just how you're feeling.

"I didn't know I could do that," You bite your lip, feeling a sense of achievement wash over you as Michael watches you in amusement.

"Glad I could help." He chuckles.

You stay lying, your panties still shifted to the side. You pull them off in one swift motion, throwing them on top of his shirt on the floor. You don't know how, but your orgasm gave you a wave of confidence. You feel like you could do anything; you feel like a woman.

"Though," You press on the bulge through his sweatpants with your foot, it's extremely hard.

"I wanna cum again, but with this," you plead, not wanting to say the word.

He bites his lower lip as he thinks about it, running a hand through his hair. Touching you is one thing, but fucking his nanny on his living room couch while his children are asleep, that's messy — & he liked it.

Before you could process what's happening, he's rolling his sweats down, giving his cock a little grab before finally sliding off his boxers too. You salivate at the sight of him. Thick, slender, & deep in colour. You instinctively open your legs wider, inviting him over. He climbs over you, one hand braced next to your head while the other juts your chin up for you to look at him, your eyes too busy on his cock.

"No one can know about this, you hearin' me?" He presses.

You nod frantically, "I promise."

You reach out to touch him, you give him a few little strokes. Your hand felt tiny up against it. He drops his head on your chest from the feeling of your hand movements. You let out a little moan as you attempt to line him up to your weeping slit, the feeling of it rubbing against you driving you crazy. You buck your hips forward, desperate to have him inside of you.

"Let me baby, relax." He takes over, lining himself up with your entrance.

You feel him begin to crown you a little, already feeling a bitter sweet sting start to form.

"Please, all in." You beg as you hold your legs open, your hands in the backs of your knees.

"Dammit,"

Michael sinks all of his length into you, the pleasure even more intense than before. You quickly shoot your hands to his shoulders to push him back a little as you squeal, your lashes fluttering as you look at him from beneath them. You start to move your hips desperately, you loved watching how it disappears & reappears beneath you, he's the biggest you've ever felt. It feels like you're having sex for the first time again. Your hands return to the backs of your knees again, spreading yourself wider for him greedily.

The sound of your mixed arousal is like music to his ears as he begins to form a steady rhythm with you. He manages to hit your g-spot constantly, never missing.

"You're gonna be the death of me." He grits, grabbing one of your breasts as he leans down to suck on one of your nipples slowly & sensually.

You whimper into his clammy hair as he's leant down, your eyes rolling back as you begin to feel the same coil in your belly you felt earlier — now able to recognise it. You let go of your thighs, your strength faltering as you come closer to your release. Michael's hands quickly replace yours, pushing your thighs back a little as he continues rolling his hips into you.

“Mm—harder,” you beg, looking up at him all pretty. Your eyes sparkling with quiet mischief, “fuck me harder.”

The sweet sound of skin meeting skin starting to creep up the harder he goes, eager for you to come again. He wants that for you.

"Michael, It's happening again I feel it. I think i'm gonna come." You warn, your eyes squeezing shut as you feel his mouth press against yours hot & messily.

He pulled back an inch from your lips, just enough to murmur, "Come for me," as he planted an encouraging slap on the side of your ass.

With a sharp cry buried deep into his shoulder, you come hard. Your vision is blocked out once again, the same pulse in your ears as you squeeze around him. You twitch beneath him.

Michael planned to last longer in the hope of pleasuring you for as long as you saw fit, yet the way your pussy clenched around him brought him to a sharp halt instantly.

"Oh, god." He whines, pulling out & stroking himself desperately as he finishes all over your thighs. You hum in pleasure as you watch his warm release slide down your skin slowly.

You pant, looking up at him with a satisfied smile as he runs a hand across your cheek, droplets of sweat from his hair hitting your forehead.

"Thanks for helping me."

Michael brushed a strand of hair from your face.

"Anytime." He giggles.

"For the first time in my life, i'm able to understand what everyone is talking about."

You're barely paying attention to the conversation they're having in front of you. Too enamored with your book and the soft playback of his new project playing in the speakers.

"You gotta stop being so shy, Mike. We know damn well you ain't shy with her, right?" Quincy points his finger in your direction, turning the attention directly to you. You bring yourself out of your own head and look up from your book. Michael scratches the back of his neck in contemplation, sighing softly before swiping his nose with his thumb.

"Okay, I'll try it once, but," he hesitates, and he looks towards you again. "I want her in there with me."

"Aight," Quincy signals for you to get up, and you look up in confusion. You were just here to keep Michael company during one of his late-night studio sessions. You finished your album with Quincy a few weeks ago, you just needed to finalize some paperwork with Epic Records, with the approval of being published.

So now that your job was over — temporarily — you and Michael finally got some time to yourselves, and what better way to spend time with each other than with your shared drive for music production? "C'mon, girl," Quincy holds his hand out, helping you off the comfort of the couch. You follow Michael into the booth, the door shutting quietly behind you. The familiar isolated silence is deafening; the only noise is shared breathing and the fumbling of Michael's headphones.

"Could you... maybe close the curtains, please? And dim the lights a little more?" Michael asks Quincy, earning him a quick nod as Q gets up from his chair to close the curtain. "Oh," Michael laughs shyly at the thought of asking too much. "Could you mute the booth for a second, too? If you don't mind. I'll let you know when I'm ready."

Michael's voice trailed off, the last word barely leaving his lips before Quincy nodded and reached for the mute switch. The lights above the booth dimmed, and suddenly the world outside the glass felt miles away.

It really was just you and him now.

The curtains slid shut, swallowing the studio in a low amber glow, and it felt undeniably smaller. It almost felt too intimate for someone as shy as Michael. He adjusted his headphones again, but his hands started to shake a little.

"Um.. would you feel better if I didn't look at you?" You laugh softly as you walk towards the lounge chair inside the booth, snuggled into the corner.

"Uh.. actually no. Could you come here?"

"Here?"

"Yeah, right next to me."

You stood beside him, book now forgotten, and your heart thudding in your chest as the silence settled around you. You'd been in this booth thousands of times before -- recording your own vocals, laughing with Michael when he would visit in between takes, yet it still felt smaller than what you were used to. Part of you blamed the curtain for that.

Michael cleared his throat softly, eyes flicking to you before darting away again.

"Sorry," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as he fixes the headphones on his head. "I don't wanna sound silly."

You shake your head gently.

"You don't ever sound silly, Michael."

He huffed out a shy laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. "Well, yeah, but you ain't seen me try this in a song before."

You stepped closer, close enough for him to feel your presence, and he looked up at you, curls falling so gracefully across his forehead, expression soft. He shrugged.

"I don't know. Q wants me to beg in this." He stammers, "I didn't wanna do it unless you're here." Your heart flutters, but you keep your breath steady. You smile, and he nods to you. The red light above the mic flickers faintly, waiting. Michael then knocks on the window, signaling that he is ready, and then takes a deep breath.

The instrumental started softly in his headphones, the sound coating his ears like velvet. You could faintly hear it bleeding through, just enough to know where he was during the outro.

Stay with me...

I want you to stay with me...

I need you by my side...

Don't you go nowhere...

He sang with flawless ease, and you started to wonder what the hell the problem was. He was feeling the music perfectly. The nerves that he felt before you stepped into the booth with him vanished entirely, like your presence alone was enough to boost his confidence.

Especially when the lyrics he sang were directed towards you.

You could've sworn you'd heard these lyrics the other day. The same words he whispered in your ear while his soft fingers touched you ever so softly.

Caressing and gripping and probing fingers, touching you just the way you liked it, coaxing more pleasure than any other man ever could. Not that you would want another, anyway. His desire for your pleasure was practically insatiable, believe it or not. He managed to make you cum 4 times in a row that night, and he didn't intend on stopping until you cried from just his fingers and these very words alone.

You stepped closer to him, and he opened his eyes halfway, gaze drifting knowingly towards you. His smile grew wicked, and the sound that followed was different. Much fuller. Desirable. Directed.

Let me feel you, baby...

All over, all over, all over...

When he finished the outro, he took his headphones off and smiled at you, taking in the look on your face. You aren't sure what your expression was, maybe awe. Maybe arousal. Maybe he was just as surprised as you were.

"How was that?"

Before you could answer, Quincy's voice came through the speakers. "Hell yeah, you did that shit," he said, voice warm with approval. "That's exactly what I wanted."

Everyone's gone home, except for the two of you.

It was now reaching 3AM, so you'd figured they were exhausted by the long hours of the night.

But not Michael.

"Gosh, I'm really excited about this new album." He muttered to you with a small smile, his attention directed towards the equilibrium table.

"So excited that you'll stay up until the crack of dawn working on it?" you question, checking your watch, "Because that's where this is headed."

He laughs softly, turning his chair around to look at you, like, really look at you. He pans his eyes over every single inch of you. He loves the way your bell-bottom jeans accentuate your curves, your blouse slightly unbuttoned from your dire need of relaxation. Your denim vest is long discarded and forgotten.

But it doesn't make you look any less enticing.

"Nah, we'll be done soon. I know you're tired, pretty thing." he pauses, "C'mere, sit on my lap."

"Your lap?"

"Mhm," he gestures his two fingers towards you, and you obey with a playful giggle. You straddle his lap with a sigh, relaxing into his touch as he wraps his arms around you.

Michael presses soft kisses along your neck, each one turning more intense than the last. His grip on your waist gets tighter as his reverence on your skin continues.

"You were so good in there." his voice is a low, intimate murmur against your skin, a stark contrast to his shy demeanor in the booth not even an hour ago. His hands slide from your waist down to your hips, gripping you firmly as he grinds you ever so subtly against the hard ridge of his denim-clad erection.

"You weren't like this in the studio." You pant softly as he shifts in the large producer's chair. He adjusts you on his lap so you're fully straddling him. The leather creaks under your combined weight as he captures your mouth in a deep and hungry kiss.

"But I'm always like this with you. I just— I don't know. I don't like doing this when people are watching," His hands slide under your untucked blouse, his warm palms splaying across the bare skin on your back. "But it's just us now. I don't have to hide anything."

"But— Mike—" He cuts off your protest as his hips roll upward, a slow, deliberate grind that presses his hard erection against your clit, still electrifying even through the layers of clothing. The cry that escapes you is louder than you would like it to be, and you look at the door instinctively, afraid of being heard.

He turns your chin gently, forcing your gaze back into his intense, dark eyes. "Shh, it's okay. No one else is here. Just you and me. Always you and me." His hands move to the hem of your blouse, fingers hooking into the fabric.

"You sure? The doors not locked."

"Yeah, baby, leave it. I need to feel you."

He unbuttons your blouse slowly, taking his time; teasing as he drinks in the sight of you. He takes it off you in one smooth motion, tossing it onto a nearby soundboard. His thumbs brush over the lace of your bra, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My lady, so perfect."

He leans forward, his mouth finding the sensitive skin just above your bra line. You can't help but moan at the sight, his gaze fixed on yours as he studies your soft expressions. You looked so cute like this.

His hands work at the button of his own jeans, fumbling slightly at his attempt at concealed urgency. The studio is filled with nothing but smooth jazz and the soft rustle of clothing. He unfastens his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free his hard length, his hand wrapping around himself with a low groan. All while watching you look at him.

"What, you like watching me like this?"

You nod, and he chuckles shyly. It was a warm sound, sending chills down your spine. "Guess who's the shy one now."

His free hand guides your hips, turning the chair around to lean you back against the cool surface of the large sound mixing table. "Don't be shy, now. Not with me at least." His free hand guides your hips, positioning you to lean back.

He pulls off your jeans fervently, exposing the wet spot in your panties. He can't help but smile at the sight of you being so turned on by just a few kisses and sweet nothings whispered in your ear. "Look at you... all for me,"

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. His voice is a soft, pleading whisper. "I want you to touch yourself. Could you do that for me, baby? Show me how you like it."

The silence between you stretches as your eyes widen slightly, yet you comply with his request. Your pretty flower is on full display for him as you move your panties to the side with trembling fingers. You begin to toy with your clit, a soft, circular motion that makes you gasp softly.

He leans back with a sigh, one hand stroking himself slowly as he watches your every move, his expression a mixture of reverence and raw hunger. God, what he would give to have a little taste.

His eyes are locked on your fingers, slowly pushing inside of you when he asks, mesmerized by the rhythm you're setting. His own hand moves in time with yours. He bites his lip, a low groan rumbling in his chest. "You're so beautiful like this." His free hand reaches out, his thumb gently brushing against your inner thigh. "Can I... can I help?"

Once you nod, his fingers join yours, his touch feather-light as he moves your hand to rest on his chest, his palm pressing yours against the frantic beat of his heart. He traces circles around your clit before gently pushing two fingers inside you.

"F-Fuck, Michael. Feels so different when you do it." You stammer, your hand on his chest closing into a fist as his fingers curl your g-spot in effortless, practiced precision. His eyes never leave your face, his thumb taking over the pressure on your clit. Your moans grow whiny, feeling the heat build up in your lower stomach as your orgasm approaches. His breath is ragged as his other hand keeps stroking his dick, teasing his sensitive slit, the combined feeling with you wrapped around his fingers was enough to make him cum.

But he refused, not when he wasn't inside of you yet.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. "Mike..."

"I know, sweetheart, I know." He lifts you effortlessly, positioning himself at your entrance. "I just think this will feel so much better."

He guides you down onto him in one slow, deep motion, a groan tearing from his throat as he fills you completely. He was right; it did feel better. So much better, you had to squeeze your eyes shut and pray you didn't cum by just the feeling alone. He sets a slow and grinding rhythm, letting you adjust to his size before his thrusts become more urgent. Your moans and soft sighs were music to his ears; he could help but want more.

"God... Michael, so— so big. It feels so good, I might—"

The sound of skin meeting skin echoes softly in the studio, your whimpers and stumbling sentences only spurring him further to his orgasm. His pace quickens, and his moans become less controlled. "I know, mama, me too. Cum with me, baby, please?" His voice cracks, high and strained as his thrusts become frantic, a desperate pounding rhythm that shakes the sound table.

Moans and curses spill from your lips as your orgasm crashes over you both simultaneously, a wave of pleasure so intense it steals the air from your lungs. A final sharp broken cry escapes him as his cum pulses deep inside you, his body trembling slightly as his face is buried in your neck.

He breathes your name into your skin, his voice hoarse and spent. For a long moment, the only sound is your combined, ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.

"I think... we should record the backup vocals now."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You kept catching him looking at you.

Michael’s eyes would flick away quickly, acting like nothing was amiss. Which, technically, nothing was. The two of you were sitting on the floor leaning against his bed while watching a movie, a typical Sunday night in the Jackson household when things got calm for a rare moment.

You had thought he sounded a little off when he had called you to come over, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on what.

Nervous didn’t really feel like the right word. Perhaps because you couldn’t think of a single reason why he would be. That very small and delusional voice in the back of your head whispered he was going to confess his feelings for you— but that would be insane.

The two of you had been friends for a while now after getting introduced to each other by a few mutual people and you had clicked.

It was easy, being around him. He probably had the same sentiments considering he still called you to hang out whenever he got a moment of down time.

When you caught him looking at you again, you decided to bite the bullet and nudge his knee with yours.

“You okay?”

“What? Yeah, fine.” He rushed. A little too quickly, in your opinion.

Your eyes narrowed. “Michael.”

His eyes slated to look at you for a moment, attempting to keep up the facade, but something in your expression made him cave.

With a sigh, he lowered the volume on the movie and turned toward you, suddenly beat red in the face and your mind was running a million miles an hour.

“I have a question,” he slowly started. Wringing his hands in his lap and suddenly not looking at you at all even though earlier he couldn’t seem to help himself.

Your eyes flicked over him, trying to get a read on what could possibly be going on but you came up blank. “Okay.”

“I…” Michael blew some air out of his mouth and suddenly laughed while looking at the ceiling. “God, this is crazy. Okay, so I, I uh… I need help with something.”

Your brows furrowed. “Okay?”

“It’s complicated and probably crossing some sort of line… and it’s also completely okay if you say no. I just want you to know first that this is in no way me trying to take advantage or trying to ruin anything. And I want you to know that I’m asking because I trust you and feel safe with you and I feel like you also feel the same way. I mean, I hope you do.” You could tell he just wanted to spit it out but looked as though he would vomit if he tried to before he was ready.

Leaning over to grab his hands, half in comfort and half to get him to stop twisting his fingers around, you gave his hands a supportive squeeze. “I do. And whatever you need help with, just know there is no judgement.”

He raised a brow at you, unsure. “None?”

“None whatsoever.”

Michael didn’t seem convinced so you held up your hand, “pinky promise.”

That got him to laugh a little bit, just a small amount of tension easing out of his shoulders as he locked pinkies with you to seal the deal.

He then let out a slow breath, eyes dancing back up to the ceiling as if in a silent prayer before he looked back at you. When his teeth sunk into his bottom lip for a moment you couldn’t help but look.

“I need to know how to go down a girl.”

You blinked.

“Pardon?”

He then covered his face with his hands, clearly embarrassed. “I knew I shouldn't have—“

“No, no, it’s just I wasn’t… I don’t know what I was expecting.” You pulled his hands from his face, your own cheeks their own deep shade of red. “It’s just, I mean— why me? What do you need to know? Do you want a bullet point list or a diagram—“

“I tried all that.”

“On a girl?” It slipped out before you thought better of it. Your envious curiosity being your downfall. You had absolutely no desire to hear about other girls he might’ve been with.

“No, the lists and diagrams, they just didn’t seem informative enough.” He said it slowly and wasn’t looking at you again.

It took an embarrassingly long moment for you to realize to what scale he was asking you to help him.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You hummed, leaning back on your palms as your mind and heart tried to get each other to calm down. “I see.”

Seconds ticked by. All you could hear was your heartbeat and Michael started going a little blurry at the edges of your vision as flashes of dreams you’ve had flicked through your mind.

Dreams one definitely should not have about their friend.

“So?”

You crossed your legs, wishing for those things in your head to go away but then panic started bubbling up in your chest. “I mean… yes? Sure, but do you mean now?”

“No no no, there’s not really a timeline. Whenever you’re ready and comfortable. Are you positive this is okay?”

More than okay, actually. “Of course, just… helping a friend out.”

He laughed as he looked down, “right.”

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Well, fuck.

As soon as he shut the car door for you and it disappeared down the driveway, he felt like he could finally breathe again.

He felt like he had been on the brink of passing out the last two hours.

In all honesty, he was surprised he had even gotten the words out.

The idea had popped into his head a while ago, something he was ashamed but also intrigued by. He just heard things, stuff around him being discussed that piqued his interest. And then someone would ask him about his experience and he’d draw up a blank.

Even though he’s only in his twenties and lived a life worth a thousand lifetimes— he still fell short on some experiences. Mostly interpersonal or intimate.

There was also that little chirp in his head that said gaining more experience in that area would improve his song writing.

Always a working man, apparently.

And like Michael said, he had tried other avenues. Buying sex education books, published articles, magazines… but it was all too structured. Inorganic. Academic and cold.

He wanted more of a human touch, but given who he was it couldn’t just be anyone. And late one night, staring up at the ceiling as moonlight danced across his room, he thought of you.

He immediately felt ashamed about it. You were his friend, he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that. Although yes, he has admittedly found you attractive, he said he’d never go there.

But once his mind found a little footing on an idea, he couldn’t drop it.

Then the dreams started and that became a whole other hell.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Six days had passed.

Six days of feeling like you weren’t able to breathe.

You didn’t want to admit the amount of money you dropped on getting ready for this.

For Michael Jackson to eat you out.

God, you were going to faint.

You’d been waxed, showered, body oils, your nails done, a new pair of lace panties, the whole package really. Part of you felt like it was all over kill but it was Michael fucking Jackson.

You wanted it, you, to be perfect.

And although he was the biggest star in the world, you didn’t want him to feel intimidated. Intimacy was a new field entirely and he seemed anxious enough asking you.

So you stuck with an outfit that was simple but still a little spiced up. A cute skirt and a nice top that made the girls look nice. Your hair was done up in a messy sort of up do— he had complimented it when it was like this a few weeks ago.

And to top it all off a pair of heels.

He had called you the day before, telling you to knock on the door of the studio when you got there, not wanting his family to come snooping.

So you stilled your breath, heels clicking on the ground as you neared the door.

“I can do this.”

And you knocked.

Mere heartbeats passed before you heard the lock click and the door opened.

You smiled, trying not to come off as shy as you felt when your eyes met his.

“Hi, Michael.”

He seemed slightly taken off guard, clearing his throat after a moment. “Hey.”

You felt like you were in high school all over again.

“So, where are we doing this?” You cringed at your wording.

“Right.” He was blushing again as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Follow me.”

Michael sneaking you through his house provided enough of an entertaining distraction to let you relax a bit. You were just helping him out. There were no stakes. No strings. Even if you wanted there to be.

The door to his room shut softly behind him and you watched in amusement as he slowly and quietly turned the lock.

“Hopefully it’s late enough so no one will bother us.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, maybe just put on some music.”

“Right, good idea.”

He looked adorable as his eyes briefly flicked to yours before looking away as he began to shuffle though his records.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

You were going to melt through the floor. “Thank you.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

He watched you, quite intently, as you sat on the edge of his bed. Back straight and hands placed neatly in your lap.

You looked like an angel.

Your eyes were on his before flicking down briefly, messing with a bracelet you had on. “So, what do you already know? Just so I have an idea.”

He felt heat pool into his cheeks, briefly glancing at the ceiling before clearing his throat. He felt more nervous now than he did performing in front of thousands of people.

“Basics, I suppose. With oral sex for women, I’m mainly supposed to focus on the… the uh, y’know.” God, he felt aware of all of his bones. If he couldn’t even say it, how was he supposed to do it. To you.

You smiled at him, though not in any teasing way to make him retreat. “It’s funny, with stuff like this. Doing it is usually less intimidating than talking about it.”

Michael nodded, rubbing at the nape of his neck as he rolled a question around in his mind. One he couldn’t help but be curious about while also dreading to hear your answer.

But he couldn’t help it.

“Have you done this before?”

You blinked at him.

“You don’t have to answer that, I was just curious—“

“A few times. I mean, I wasn’t showing someone how to do it, like now. And they were alright, it helped me find out what I like, which is what I’ll tell you.”

Michael nodded. A little annoyed that other people had had the privilege but he decided not to dwell on the fact for now or come to terms for what that meant for him.

Your nails tapped a rhythm into your leg. “So, whenever you’re ready—“

“Can we play a game first? Just to, y’know, calm the nerves?”

Twenty minutes later the two of you were tangled up on a Twister mat. Laughing as one had to stretch uncomfortably and almost fall over.

The momentary distraction did help ease his nerves but it definitely made something else more apparent.

Your skirt was incredibly short.

You barely had to bend over for him to start seeing the subtle curve of your ass cheek meet your thigh. That sight alone was inticing… and then he saw the lace of your underwear.

Fuck me, was a statement that had been running through his mind. He tried not to look, really he did. But the thin lace was right there and not leaving much to the imagination, and then he’d remember what exactly you were here for.

Michael knew his composure was steadily unraveling and when you bent over again for your turn he cleared his throat.

“I think I’m ready.”

You stood up, brows raised slightly in surprise at his sudden statement, rouge bleeding into your cheeks.

“Okay, come here.”

And then your fingers laced with his as you walked back to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it and he was about to join you but you stopped him with your fingers hooked into his belt loops.

He looked down at you, that sight alone— that low voice in the back of his head wondering how lovely you’d look with his cock in your mouth right now…

What had gotten into him?

“Kneel.”

One word. That’s all it took, and he did as told.

Lowering to his knees in front of you, eyes on yours because he suddenly discovered he couldn’t— didn’t want to look anywhere else.

You held his gaze and you took his hands, bringing them to your knees. He got the hint, gently spreading them wider so he could slot between them easily.

Then you were laying down, his own eyes flicking lower and he could see the lace.

Really, your skirt was a pathetic excuse for a piece of sufficient clothing. Not that he minded given the circumstances.

Then his hands were dancing up, fingers dragging along your thighs and watching as goosebumps followed in the wake of his touch.

He was pushing your skirt up around your waist and when he finally got to see your underwear entirely he felt his heart skip a beat.

The bow at the top was adorable.

And you were right there… legs spread and only a thin piece of cloth hiding you away.

“Should I—“ he cleared his throat, given the words came out more hoarse than he intended. “Should I take these off?” His fingers looped on the string but you grabbed his wrist.

“Not yet.” Then you dragged his hand over, right above you and he could feel the heat rolling off you in waves. “The build up is just as important.”

He nodded, taking mental notes while he was still able to focus.

“Like you said, main point to focus on is here.”

His index and middle finger gently pressed down and he saw the muscles in your thighs twitch.

Noted.

Your breath came out a little heavier. “And if you slide down, just there, that’s the entrance. You can tease that through the lace as well.”

His fingers slid down to where you said, feeling the fabric cave in a little bit but that’s not what made him suck in a breath.

You were wet.

The lace already damp with your arousal, for him, and Michael felt the room start to tip slightly. His self restraint starting to lose its balance.

“You can choose to do it with your hands, but given what you— oh.”

He wasn’t thinking straight, or at all, lowering himself with little hesitation and his mouth latched onto your clit through your underwear.

A sound started to slip past your lips but you bit it back when he applied a rolling pressure with his tongue.

He wanted to hear it again.

His ears were ringing but he followed your instructions. Each one coming out in a more labored breath. His hands gripping onto the soft flesh of your thighs as he worked, focused, intent on hearing the way you tried to bite back whimpers.

And then he slid down, tongue teasing the entrance of your pussy as his nose brushed against your clit and you moaned.

It felt like he was hearing the trumpets of heaven and you tasted clean. Erotic. He didn’t know how else to describe it, but you were so fucking wet. Both from your own arousal and his saliva, that the lace was sticking to you like a second skin and he could almost see you. Almost.

And finally finally you told him to move your underwear to the side and when his eyes finally landed on your pussy he groaned before diving back in. Tongue tracing from your clit to your to your cunt and you tasted better than anything he had ever imagined.

Your back arched off the bed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to hold back a shout.

“I wanna hear you,” he muttered, feeling hazy as his tongue flattened over your clit and his cock was so hard that it hurt.

You cried out, trying to muffle the sound with your hand and he almost missed the way you said his name.

He wanted to hear his name like that from your mouth for the rest of his life.

As if he were starving, his fingers dug into your thighs as he dragged his tongue down and started to fuck you with his tongue and lips and teeth. Being driven even further towards the brink of insanity every time you said more or right there.

Your hands twined into his hair, hips rolling up to meet his mouth and he was determined to make you come. To do it just right.

The thought of you making a mess all over his mouth made his cock twitch in his pants and he was half worried he’d finish right then and there like he was a teenager.

His eyes then flicked up, eyes catching yours and then you flat out moaned his name, the sound coming from your soul it seemed and he felt something in him snap.

Michael didn’t even realize what he was doing, two fingers dragging over your pussy before they slid inside, curving them to your body and you were so soft and fucking warm.

Then his fingers pressed against something textured and you would’ve flown off the bed if he hadn’t secured an arm over your hips.

The sounds in the room dancing just below the volume of the music were lewd. Sinful. Your body being contorted in pleasure as you grinded against his face.

All he could sense was you.

Then your muscles tensed, your head rolling back and God the way his name dripped off your tongue.

“Michael, I’m— I’m…”

And then you came, your pussy tightening in a pulse around his fingers and he could feel your heartbeat on his tongue.

He was lost. Completely.

Not being able to stop himself even as your legs tightened around his head. Not even as you cried it’s too much.

He wanted more like a man who had stumbled across paradise after wandering in the desert for too long.

Just too fucking thirsty.

“Michael.”

Then his lips and chin were suddenly very, very wet.

He blinked as he pulled back, meeting your wide eyes. Watching as your gaze flicked down the wetness covering the lower half of his face and you sucked in a breath.

His mind was short circuiting.

He’d read about when a woman does that, though not super often and Michael hadn’t even let it occur to mind that he could make someone do that.

Make you do that.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t even know I could—“

He felt like his common sense had taken a seat in the back of his mind because next thing he knew he was pushing you back onto the bed, crawling over you and lips crashing into yours. Hips rolling with a mind of their own and that first sensation of warmth and pressure against his cock even through his slacks made him shiver.

It was messy and wonderful. Teeth hitting against each other and tongues sliding in their own dance.

Your hands fumbled with his zipper and then—

“Fuck,” Michael’s face fell into the crook of your neck when he felt your hand wrap around him.

Your hand dragged up along the shaft, thumb swiping against his tip that had been leaking pre-come for who knew how long and he shuddered against you, hips seeking out more as he thrusted into your hand.

He was in such a lust induced haze he felt like the world wasn’t even real anymore. Just you and him and the edge heaven at the tips of his fingers.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

Michael was desperate. His hips rolling in search of more and he accidentally slid the tip of his cock right up along your pussy. Gathering wetness and you were just so fucking warm— he wasn’t thinking. Honestly, he wasn’t.

His mouth met yours again and then his hips lowered, cock sliding in instead of up and he felt whatever willpower he had break.

You felt so fucking good and then you moaned and before the next breath he was in all the way to tne hilt.

His heavy lidded eyes met your own and when he slowly dragged out, watching in fascination as your pupils expanded into pools of ink with your mouth dropped open… who was he to put a stop to this?

So he thrusted back in. Back out. Slow and deliberate and so fucking wonderful.

“You feel like heaven,” his words came out broken, his own moan fracturing his speech.

His name left your lips in a cry, your legs wrapped around his hips and deeper he went. He wanted to go deeper in ways that weren’t physically possible and his eyes flicked down. Seeing the way your pussy took him so well and he didn’t even feel human right now.

Michael’s thrust became harder and his pace quickened into something more erratic and wild, mouth on yours, sloppy and wet and when he felt you tighten around him as you came again he tipped right over the edge with you.

Seeing stars behind his eyes as he came and he couldn’t stop. Something in his soul begging him to keep going. Making sure he got all of it inside of you, not a drop wasted because it really would’ve been such a fucking waste.

After what felt like a daydream finally concluding, Michael collapsed on top of you. Breathing heavy and his heartbeat so loud he felt like he was underwater.

Your arms were still wrapped around him as he settled between your thighs and against your chest, trying to catch your breath.

Your bodies were covered in sweat that made the air a bit cool against the skin and when he shivered, both from the temperature and his body coming down from the shock of pleasure, did it dawn on Michael of what exactly he just did.

God forgive me.

Slowly, he raised himself up on his arms, not being able to help himself as he watched his cock pull out, both of your releases covering him and seeping out of you. It was probably the hottest thing he’d ever seen but it wasn’t enough to overshadow the reality of what he’d just done.

“I didn’t mean to—“

“Michael, that was…” you blinked up at the ceiling. Looking fucked out and like an angel in his bed sheets. “Wow.”

He blushed, despite what he just did to you. Michael didn’t regret it, that he was sure of. In fact, he knew he wanted to do it again.

“I think I still need some more practice.” He muttered, leaning down to catch your lips with his and you hummed.

“Agreed. Same time next Sunday?”

He shook his head as he pulled back, teeth catching onto your bottom lip. “I was thinking tomorrow.”

michael jackson masterlist

As you and Michael walked in, you smoothed your dress the black silk clinging softly to your frame, simple but elegant, the kind of fabric that hugged without trying too hard his arm stayed around your waist as you two walked in together.

His new album had done exactly what everyone expected it had been a massive success, breaking records. So his team threw a party to celebrate its success.

౨ৎ

The first hour passed in a blur of introductions and polite smiles. Michael kept his hand on your lower back the entire time, the kind of touch that said she’s with me.

“You okay?” you asked, turning your head to face him.

He was watching something over your shoulder, his jaw moving slightly, a muscle ticking under his skin.

“Michael?”

His eyes snapped back to you, and the tension in his face softened. “Yeah, baby. I’m fine.” He said, kissing your forehead. “You need another drink?”

“I’m good,” you said, shaking your head slightly.

He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was against your spine.

౨ৎ

“You’re Michael’s girl, right?” a producer said, sliding in beside you while Michael was pulled into a conversation with Quincy Jones near the piano. “I’ve seen you at his recording sessions.”

You gave a polite smile. “Yes.”

“I can tell,” he said his eyes dropping to your mouth, lingering there a bit too long.

You let out a small, nervous laugh in response.

For the rest of the night, he kept finding reasons to stay near you.

He brought you a fresh drink when yours was half-empty, leaning in close to explain the background of another producer you didn’t really care about he yapped away letting his hand brush your waist when he gestured toward the bar.

You didn't think much of it. You were friendly by nature always had been and the champagne had made you warm and loose tongued. You laughed at his jokes. You nodded along when he talked about the label's upcoming projects.

Across the room, though, Michael went quiet as he watched you both laughing together, trying to figure out why he felt so damn comfortable with his girlfriend.

౨ৎ

Michael was laughing with Quincy, nodding at something a dancer said, accepting a congratulations with a soft smile but his eyes kept drifting towards you everytime time you turned back to check on him, he was already looking at you.

Over the next few minutes, Michael made his way back towards you.

He excused himself from a conversation mid-sentence, irritated he was so tired of seeing you laughing with another man. When he reached you, his hand slid around your waist, gripping you possessively as his eyes flicked to the man beside you.

“Hey, baby.”

He kissed you on the lips before you could even respond, right there in front of him.

"Hey." You smiled up at him, tipsy and happy. "Quincy done with you?"

"For now." He pulled you close enough to press your hip against his. "You having fun?"

“I am.” You smiled, motioning to the man beside you. “He was just telling me about-“

“I know.” His words came out as if he was annoyed…because he was. “Come sit with me.”

He didn't wait for an answer. As he guided you toward the far end of the lounge, where a curved love seat sat half-hidden behind a marble pillar. He sat first, then pulled you down onto his lap.

In front of everyone.

You laughed softly, surprised. “Mikey, people are watching.”

“Let them.” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles against the silk of your dress. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “You were too far away over there.”

“I was right across the room.”

“Too far, sweet thing,” he mumbled, his eyes scanning the room for the producer who had been too damn close to you.

౨ৎ

He somehow made his way back over to you again ten minutes later. When Michael stepped off to chat with a choreographer, you now stood near the windows.

“Another one?” he said, appearing beside you with two glasses in his hand. He offered one to you with a wink.

“I’m cut off,” you said, smiling. “Michael’s been watching my intake he doesn’t want me to get too tipsy.”

“Smart man.” He kept the glass out, though, waiting. “One more won’t hurt. I’ll take the blame.”

You hesitated, then laughed and took it. “You’re trouble.”

“That’s what they tell me.” He leaned in slightly. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure you out all night.”

“Oh.”

He looked at you, his gaze warm, a little too intimate for a man you’d met hours ago. “How does a pretty girl like you end up with someone like him?”

His question caught you off guard, a hint of offense slipping into your voice. “What do you mean, someone like him?”

“I mean.” He shrugged. ‘He’s Michael Jackson. He’s not exactly available to the world, I guess. I just wonder how you fit.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but a hand closed around your wrist before you could speak.

“She’s done with this conversation,” Michael said, pulling you away.

“Michael-“

“Now,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

His fingers tightened around your wrist but not enough to hurt. “Excuse us.”

౨ৎ

The hallway outside the lounge was empty. Soft light from the wall lamps cast a glow against the walls, and the sound of the party faded to a low hum behind the closed doors. You and Michael had ended up leaving early.

He walked fast, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, until he reached a door marked Private Suite.

Michael let go of your wrist as the two of you walked into the room. He stood with his back to you, shoulders tight, hands sliding into his pockets as he took a deep breath.

“ What was that with him?”

His voice was terrifyingly calm. You knew he was mad.

You closed the door behind you, frowning.

“What?” you added. “He was asking me a question.”

"You know what."

"I don't."

He stared at you, then laughed a short, breathless sound that didn’t match the tension in his body.

“You don’t even realize,” he said, shaking his head as he paced toward the window.

“Baby.”

“You let him touch you,” he said, stopping and turning back to face you. “You let him stand that close. You laughed at his jokes, you took his drink.”

“I was being polite.”

“You were being friendly,” his voice dropped, softer now and somehow that was worse. “Too friendly.”

“I’m friendly with everyone, babe.”

"That's the problem."

“Mikey…” you said, stepping toward him. “I don’t even remember his name. He was just some producer. I didn’t-I wasn’t trying to-“

"I know."

"That's what makes it worse. You don't even know what you do to me."

“Every time another man looks at you, I lose my patience,” he said.

“Every time you laugh at someone else’s joke, every time someone touches you, I have to stand there and act like it doesn’t bother me.”

“You’re mine. I can’t help it.”

You reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into your palm, needing the contact more than he’d admit.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“You’re okay, mama. It was him he wants what’s mine.” He said pressing a kiss to your palm.

“ Michael. I don’t give a fuck about that producer.”

His hand tightened at your waist as he pulled you in and kissed you slow at first, then deeper. His hands moved to your face, cradling you with both hands, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you, his tongue in your mouth and everything.

This was the kind of kiss that made your knees weak.

“Mm mikey…” you breathed against his mouth.

“Fuck, I love kissing you,” he said, backing you toward the bed until your thighs hit the edge.

“My girl,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your throat. “Wanna hear you say it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were all wild.

“You’re mine aren’t you?”

“ Yes i'm yours,” you whispered.

“And who do you belong to?” he asked as his hand slid up your neck, his fingers squeezing.

“You.”

“I belong to you, Michael im all yours forever.”

When you said that its like the tension in his shoulders released, and he exhaled like he'd been holding his breath all night.

“That's what i wanted to hear princess.”

౨ৎ

The air left your lungs in a soft gasp as your back suddenly hit the duvet, his body following yours. His hands were already moving pushing the silk straps off your shoulders, dragging the black fabric down until your breasts spilled free.

He didn't stop to admire them. Not yet. His mouth was already lower, pressing hot, open kisses down your sternum, your ribs and your belly.

He took his time you were something truly precious in his hands.

His hands followed the curve of your hips, your thighs.

“Don't wear that dress again.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll remind me of him.” He said biting the skin just above your navel, not hard enough to break, but enough to leave a mark.

"And i won't be nice about it next time." He said hooking his fingers into your panties pulling them down your legs. Tossing them somewhere behind him without looking.

Then he pushed your thighs apart.

“You’re so gorgeous.”

You moaned softly at his words, threading your fingers through his hair.

He pressed kisses to the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, before shifting to the other side. He took his time, working his way upward his lips tracing over every inch of your skin avoiding where you wanted him most.

“Michael...”

“Be patient.”

“No, Michael, please.”

“I want it now.”

He smiled against your skin a slow, wicked smile. “That's not how this works. You spent all night giving another man your attention. Now you're gonna give me every sound you got.”

“I wanna hear every sound.” He said and then his mouth was on you.

His tongue pressed flat against your cunt dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, but he didn't let up. He did it again. And again.

Each pass slower than the last, his tongue pressing harder, until you were gripping the sheets, gasping his name without thinking who might hear.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmured against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.

“Been starving all night thinking about this pussy.”

He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked with full force, causing you to see white in your vision. His tongue flicked rapidly against the sensitive nub, while his fingers found your entrance and slid one, then two inside you without warning.

“Shit baby,” you breathed.

“You feel that?” His voice was like silk against your skin.

“That's me inside you. Nobody else is ever gonna be inside you.”

“Nobody else-fuck-nobody else, Michael-“ He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

“That’s my girl.” He said humming in response as he held you down with one hand on your stomach.

He didn’t slow down, though. He fucked you with his fingers while his mouth worked your clit relentlessly and possessively, as if he was trying to crawl inside you through your pleasure.

Every time you got close to coming, he pulled back just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, and then he dove back in harder.

“You gonna come for me sweetheart?”

“Yes-yes-“

“This pussy is entirely yours, Mikey.”

“Good girl.”

"Come for me." His voice was muffled, rough. "I wanna feel you come on my tongue."

He pressed his tongue against your clit, flattening it as he rapidly circled it.

Simultaneously, his fingers fucked you deeper and rougher.

He groaned against you, savoring the sensation, and the sound of his groans, mixed with the vibrations, pushed you over the edge.

Your back arched off the bed as you cried out his name, and he drank every second of it as if he were dying of thirst.

Your thighs clamped around his head, your body shaking through wave after wave. He didn't stop he kept licking, kept sucking, kept drinking every drop of your release like he was claiming it, marking it as his.

When you finally stopped trembling, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. His face was wet, his lips swollen his eyes burning with satisfaction.

"You even taste like you're mine," he said.

He lowered his head again, spreading you open with his thumbs as he buried his face between your trembling thighs, his tongue plunging inside you once more.

The second orgasm hit you harder and faster. As you screamed his name, he pinned your hips down and continued licking until you were crying begging him to stop.

Only then did he pull away.

He crawled up your body afterward, kissing you and letting you taste yourself on his lips. He was still fully dressed, his shirt damp from your release.

“Better?” you managed, still gasping for breath.

“Not yet,” he replied, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’m not done.”

He rose from the bed and sat up long enough to remove his shirt, pants, and boxers. You watched him in the dim light the lean lines of his body, the smooth skin, and the way his dick stood firm against his stomach.

He settled over you the tip of his cock nudged against your entrance, “Feel it baby?” He said pushing just barely inside just enough to make you gasp.

“All this is just for you.”

The stretch was perfect as he slowly moved in, inch by inch, until he was fully seated. You could feel him everywhere. He lingered there for a moment, allowing you to adjust. His forehead pressing against yours.

“Uh uh, look me in the eyes while I fuck you,” he whispered as he began to move. You tried to maintain eye contact, but your eyes were about to roll back.

He slowly fucked you, with deep, rolling thrusts that hit that spot inside you.

His rhythm was hypnotic as fuck, his breath hot against your neck, as his hands gripped your hips.

He pulled out slow so slow you felt every ridge, every inch then he slammed back in hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

“Fuck-“

"Yeah. That's it.”

“Whose girl are you?” he asked.

“I’m Michael’s girl,” you moaned.

“Yes, you are, baby,” he said, picking up the pace. He drove into you harder and faster the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room.

He set a punishing rhythm. Hard, deep strokes that drove you further into the mattress with every thrust. The room filled with the wet sound of him fucking you, your breathless moans, his guttural grunts.

“You like this hm sweet girl?” He said, rubbing tight circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. “You like being fucked like this, huh?”

You just kept mumbling incoherent words as he fucked you stupid.

“Keep those pretty eyes on me,” he gripped your chin, forcing your gaze to his. “I want you to see who’s fucking you. I want you to remember.”

“I won’t forget,” you said.

“Good,” he kissed you, sloppily and hungry.

“Because I’m not gonna let you.”

He flipped you onto your stomach without warning, pulled your hips up, and entered you from behind. The new angle made you gasp, made you claw at the sheets.

“All mine.”

“Tell me,” he thrust deeper, harder. “Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” your voice broke on a moan. “I understand, I understand-“

“That’s right.”

He moaned as you tightened your pussy around him. He drove deeper and faster, his rhythm losing control. You were close, and he could feel it building.

And then

A knock at the door.

Three knocks.

"Shit." You tensed.

"Don't you stop." His hand clamped down on your hips, holding you in place. "Keep throwing that perfect ass back on me.”

He stopped moving for half a second, his head lifting. His eyes cut toward the door.

“Michael?” You were breathless and trembling. “Who is that?“

"Shh." He resumed moving, slower now, but no less deep. His hand pressed flat against your lower back, holding you steady. "You feel so good around me i don’t wanna stop."

The knock came again, louder this time. A familiar voice, slurred with alcohol, followed it.

“Hey, hello? Is this the wrong room? Is anyone in here? “ He asked.

"Oh my gosh, that's-"

"I know who it is."

It was the producer who had flirted with you.

He didn't stop.

The door wasn’t locked either. You realized that when he started fumbling with the doorknob. He pushed the door open and stumbled inside. Michael didn’t care as he continued to pound you into the bed.

"I was told suite 4-"

He stopped in his tracks suddenly sobered up.

The room was dimly lit by only two lights, but that was enough for him to see the two of you on the bed. The light revealed Michael’s silhouette moving against yours, your body arching beneath him.

The wet sounds of sex filled the silence.

He froze. His mouth opened. Closed.

You turned your head the other way in fear, scared that he’d realize it was you two. But Michael didn’t stop; he wanted him to see that he’d never have you.

His eyes locked onto his as he wrapped his large hand around your neck tilting your head back.

“Don't hide,” he murmured, loud enough for him to hear. “Let him see.”

“Oh fuck im-“ You were shaking, humiliated and aroused in equal measure. “Please.”

“Please, what?” He pressed further, and you couldn’t help but moan, despite feeling embarrassed. “Please stop, or please don’t?” he teased.

“Keep going,” you moaned, completely ignoring his presence at the door. You didn’t care as long as he kept fucking you.

He stood frozen in shock, watching Michael move his hand from your neck to your hair, using it to pull you back as your ass rippled against him.

His gaze fell to Michael’s cock as it disappeared into you. It was wet and glistening, with a white ring forming at the base.

He smiled and asked, “See something you like?”

“She’s all mine you’ll never have her.” Michael said, his eyes never leaving the man.

“You understand me?”

The producer swallowed and nodded.

“Then get the fuck out.”

The door slammed shut.

Michael didn't slow down. He leaned forward, his chest pressed against your back.

“He saw us. He saw me fucking you. He really knows you’re mine now.”

His pace quickened. His breathing grew ragged, his control slipping. He buried his face in your neck and continued fucking you like he was trying to brand himself onto your bones.

“I’m so close.” You said.

“Come on, baby, come for me then,” he urged. “Come on, your dick.”

You came apart, a shattered cry tearing from your throat. Your body clenched around him, and he followed a second later, his body shuddering against yours as his groan was muffled against your skin.

“Fuck-“ He buried himself deep, his hips flush against your ass. You felt him pulse inside you, all hot and thick, a claim that went beyond words.

He stilled inside you, gasping for breath, his forehead pressed against the back of your head.

Afterward, he collapsed beside you.

“Now, your pussy is marked too.”

You nodded, you were exhausted.

The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing.

“Michael?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe he saw us!”

A soft laugh escaped him. “Honestly, I’m glad he saw us. That’ll teach him about flirting with my woman.”

“Are you okay though?” he asked quietly.

“I feel good, and also thoroughly fucked.”

“That’s what I wanted,” he said as he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you kissing your forehead.

౨ৎ

The aftercare was gentle and thoughtful. He brought you water, a warm washcloth, and even kissed the marks he’d left on your hips, apologizing softly.

“I got all carried away,” he said, tracing patterns on your skin

“I like it when you get carried away.”

“Don't encourage me.”

You laughed, soft and sleepy. “Too late.”

He smiled and pulled you closer.

You'd let him claim you a thousand times over.

Tags ❤︎ - @amilliongoodfish

@thedoggonegirl

@rlm-11

This time, you recognize the voice, and you exhale a shuddering breath, relaxing just slightly.

It’s Tom.

Lying on your front, you don’t get to meet his expression, hell, you don’t even get to fucking ask what he’s doing—

Because you already feel him pressing against your entrance, tip hot and flushed, leaking with need—and with a single, measured thrust, he pushes inside. Deep.

“Fuck—“ you shriek at the sudden, stinging stretch. “Tom, that hurts!”

As you reach behind you, trying to push him away, give you time to adjust, he instantly pins your wrists to your back.

“I know— fuck, I know.” He grumbles, yet shows no intent to stop. Instead, he pulls out, pushing back inside immediately—drawing another sharp gasp from you. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

You don’t know exactly what’s gotten into him. Yes, you both agreed upon this, that he could use you when you were asleep—and that you could tell him to stop whenever you actually wanted to—but never had he been this eager.

“Tom, please—“ you try again, whimpering at the burning, unrelenting stretch. His hand finds its way into your hair, lifting your head slightly just to push you into the pillow beneath you—muffling your whines.

His hips rock forward once more, testing, trying how much you can take.

“You will be quiet and take it, alright? Be a good girl for me?” He mumbles, voice coming out raspy, laced with need. He withdraws then, only halfway this time—

Just to snap his hips forward again, tip harshly ramming against your sensitive cervix—a feeling that has you biting your lips so hard, you taste blood.

“God, Tom!” You yelp, hips involuntarily bucking against his in an attempt to free yourself—but it only results in him slipping deeper, drawing a low groan from the brunette.

Slowly, he starts rolling his hips against yours, still buried deep, brows furrowed, breathing heavily through his slightly parted lips at just how tight you feel around him.

Finally, his hand leaves your hair, allowing you to inhale a deep breath—lungs burning from the lack of oxygen as you do. Just a mere second later, it’s wrapped around your neck instead, pushing you down once more.

He’s got you exactly how he likes you—one leg angled to your side, his body trapping yours between him and the bed, fingers pressing into your pulse point, enough to make you feel light-headed. Hips flush with yours, ass pressed against his pelvis—it makes his head spin. He needs to have you, take you—now.

“Slipped me this potion— told me it was for sobering up— fuck, sweetheart, you’re tight.” He groans, a deep, low sound somewhere from the back of his throat, feeling him twitch inside you.

It all comes crashing down onto you. Why he is like this.

They made him drink a Lust Potion.

Judging by the fact that he didn’t even second-guess before downing it—must mean he’s had a decent amount of drinks as well.

All of that, combined with the effects of the potion—turned him into this.

You don’t get to think about the situation for much longer and what you could do to ease the effects—the slow drag of his cock against your walls as he starts thrusting into you efficiently short-circuiting your brain.

He doesn’t ease you into it. After one or two thrusts, he picks up his pace, hips snapping against yours as though it’s the last time he gets to have you.

Tom usually isn’t the most vocal. Yes, he enjoys it—loves it, even—when he can pin you down and fuck you into the mattress until you are begging for him to let you come. But, just like outside of your sacred four walls, he likes to keep his composure—even during the most intimate acts.

In short: he hates losing control.

But now—he’s moaning, whimpering even at how sensitive he is—at how good and warm you feel, wrapped tightly around him.

It’s making your brain fuzzy. Everything about it. How you are slowly loosening up for him, allowing him to increase his pace, how your own arousal makes it even easier for him to thrust deep.

“Taking me so well, sweetheart.” Tom praises, breathless, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the otherwise quiet bedroom. “Like this pussy was fucking made for me, fitting me like a damn glove—“

And at this point you are praying you would survive this.

His thrusts grow rougher, punishing almost, brushing against your cervix with every single snap of his hips. His hand wraps around your throat, cutting off your airflow once more as he feels himself getting close.

“Fuck, darling— going to let me fill you up, hm? Make you nice and full of me?” He grits out, staying pressed flush against you for a second, making you feel all of him—every vein, every ridge—every. single. inch.

You nod as best as you can, clenching down tight around him.

“Please Tom, please fill me up— need it, fuck—“

He groans at that, cursing under his breath.

“Good girl. Such a perfect little doll, all nice and pliant for me—“

It’s not long until his pace falters, hips stuttering against your own—and he groans lowly as he starts spilling deep inside of you, coating your walls with his warm release.

He collapses on top of you—breathing heavily against your neck, chest heaving—and although your mind is still hazy with your own pleasure, your thoughts drift back to what happened before he returned to your home.

Knowing them, you guess it’s Rosier and Mulciber who did it. Probably thought it was hilarious, too.

You aren’t sure if you should feel bad for the fact that you don’t know what Tom would come up with as punishment.

Because hell—they are not the ones who have to put up with him like this.

Meanwhile, Tom is still buried deep, keeping his release right where it belongs—but then, when his breathing returns to normal, he gives you the slightest roll of his hips—

“Said it would take three hours to wear off—“

And you already feel him growing hard again.

Fuck, you are screwed.

“Tom, please—“

He shushes you with a kiss on top of your head.

“No. Stay— need you— need you again.” He rasps, back to thrusting into you, fucking his cum even deeper as he’s back chasing his next climax. And you? You are right there with him, on the precipice of your own orgasm.

Merlin fucking help you.

If he won’t kill them for this, you might just do it yourself.

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

“So why that guy?” Sukuna casually asked, two arms behind his head, another hand on the back of your head, fingers in your hair, not bothering to pull or guide, just resting there.

“What do you mean?” You asked as you pulled up for a breath, licking along from the base of one of his cocks to the tip, a hand idly playing with the other. In your time being friends with benefits with Sukuna, you’d gotten very comfortable together. It wasn’t uncommon to do this, to idly play with each other while you had a conversation, just to make it a little bit more interesting, and the two of you are insatiable.

“He really doesn’t seem.. I dunno? Boyfriend material?” He replied, his fourth hand gesturing vaguely as he spoke. You didn’t reply to that, just rolling your eyes with a scoff, taking his length back into your mouth.

The two of you had already been friends for some time, and sleeping together for a large chunk of that time. Having him to hook up with was ideal, you had a busy life and you really didn’t have time to be fooling around with men who were useless in bed, building trust with them again and again only to find out they weren’t worth your time. Sukuna, on the other hand, was very worth your time.

“Come on, I know it’s not a sex thing, that’s what you’ve got me for.” He added after a moment of just letting his head fall back and enjoy the feel of you around him. You’d learned his body perfectly, knew just how to play it to get the song you wanted from its bones. His fingers in your hair idly scraped over your scalp, a silent reward for your casual worship.

“You’re jealous.” You accused when you pulled up again, this time taking his other cock between your lips, glasses slipping down your nose from the angle. Sukuna reached over to pull them off, setting them aside before he continued.

“I’m not jealous, I just don’t see what the point is.” “I just wanted to. Is that a crime?” You asked, looking up at him from between his thighs, tongue darting out to lick away a drop of precum that rolled down from his slit. He inhaled a breath through his teeth, fingers grasping your hair just a little tighter. “Yeah, but why? He’s a loser, and it’s not like you were actually that interested in him.” He remarked. You didn’t dignify that with a response at first, refocusing on the way you were sucking his cock, stroking the other and your other hand idly rolling his sac. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, ‘kuna.”

That did it.

The relaxed atmosphere shifted near immediately, and suddenly all four hands were on your body. He hauled you up towards him and turned you around effortlessly. Two of his arms wrapped around you to hold your back to his chest, one hand pinching and rolling your nipple and the other pressed to your abdomen. His other two large hands gripped the fat of your thighs, pulling them back towards you until your knees were pressed to your shoulders.

“You wanna be a brat? Fine. I’ll treat you like one.” Sukuna grunted. He lined himself up, and in the next moment he was slamming into you, hands on your thighs gripping tight enough to bruise as he helped you move back onto him, hips rocking to push himself up and into you, slamming into your gspot with each movement. Pleasure overtook you in an instant, head falling back against his shoulder and lips parting to loudly moan. He was right about one thing - Sukuna had your sex life totally covered, there was no reason to look anywhere else when there was nobody who could fuck you like this.

His second cock bounced with each movement, slapping up and somehow against your clit each time, sending its own bolt of pleasure hot through your body. His tongue dragged up the length of your neck, gathering a droplet of sweat there, his chuckle low in his chest, vibrating against your back.

“There it is. See? You don’t need some fuckin’ loser taking up your time. Just come see me next time.” He murmured against your ear, breath fanning over your cheek. One of his hands - you’d lost track of which - moved down your body to cover your core as he continued to slam into you, and before you could so much as rock your hips to trace proper friction against your clit, a mouth had manifested on his hand, and a tongue was swirling around the bud. He was maddeningly good at pleasuring you, like he’d been taught precisely in detail how to do it, and he always used that knowledge to the best of his ability.

It took no time at all for an orgasm to crash into your body, rushing through you in intensive waves as he continued snapping his hips up. Plap, plap, plap, and then he slipped out, rutting against your folds until he was cumming up and over your stomach, his other cock spurting over the couch cushions. The two of you lay there for a moment catching your breath, before Sukuna hauled the both of you up and set you down on slightly trembling legs. He paused just a moment, for just a second giving the illusion of care, as he made sure you weren’t going to fall.

“Go wipe up, we’re going out.” He declared, padding away. “What?” “It’s your birthday,” he said from the doorway, turning back to look at you, “we’re going out.”

You hadn’t though that he remembered.

Huh.

Tags: @claryeverlarkf @uselessboots @cainnoable @queenmimi2817 @hellkaiserinphoenix @wrennyx @lunulatalux @gojosbigboobies @yoonsucks @fanaticsnail @liliklei

The kind of heat that puts you in a bad mood before noon. The kind that leaves your skin sticky all day, ruins your makeup in record time, and makes it impossible to ever feel truly clean or comfortable. You hate the way heat clings to your body like it has a personal problem against you.

That’s the thing about cold, you can fix cold.

Blankets. Hoodies. Socks. Hot coffee.

Heat, on the other hand, is evil.

There’s no escaping it unless the AC is working overtime, and even then, the heat still feels personal.

Still…

you can’t fully hate summer.

Because summer also means seeing your husband shirtless far more often than you should be allowed to.

Out in the yard trimming the hedges.

Washing your car.

Working out in the backyard.

Doing absolutely anything while half-naked and looking like some cruel, unfair fantasy specifically designed to test your patience.

And honestly?

That only makes the heat worse.

Because Sukuna, your idiotic, unfairly attractive husband sleeps half naked.

And to make matters worse, he refuses to sleep without practically draping his entire body over yours.

Which would be cute…

if he wasn’t built like a damn oven.

It’s only April.

It’s supposed to be spring.

Cool breezes. Light weather. Cute café dates in a garden.

But no.

The temperatures have been disgusting since mid-March, like summer decides to show up early just to make your life harder.

Tonight is the hottest night of the week.

Every fan in the house is on.

The windows are open as far as they’ll go.

And still, the heat feels unbearable.

“God, it’s so hot. I feel so disgusting,” you groan from the living room couch, half-melted into the cushions with a fan pointed directly at your face and body.

From across the room, Sukuna looks up at you.

“I already called maintenance,” he says, walking over to your spot before shamelessly taking the fan away from you. “They’re coming tomorrow morning to check the AC.”

“Ryomen!” you gasp, immediately sitting up in offense.

He looks at you like you’re being dramatic.

“It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

He tucks the fan under one arm and jerks his chin toward the bedroom.

“Agh, I don’t even want to move,” you complain dramatically, dropping back onto the couch and lazily lifting one arm toward him in silent demand.

Sukuna stares at you for a second before the corner of his mouth pulls into a small, knowing smirk.

“Sure.”

He grabs your arm and pulls you up with just enough force to make your stomach flutter.

You hate how much you like it when he manhandles you like that.

Especially looking the way he does right now, shirtless, skin warm and golden under the dim house lights, pink hair slightly messy, tattoos stretching over every inch of his body like he was built in a lab just for you.

Honestly, he’s half the reason you’re overheating in the first place.

You follow him toward the bedroom, dragging your feet a little before mumbling, “I’m gonna rinse off before bed. I want to feel clean.”

“Fine, I’ll wait for you” Sukuna says.

But not before his eyes drag slowly over your body one last time as you peel your top off on the way to the bathroom.

You step into the shower and turn the water nearly freezing.

The cold hits your skin and immediately makes you sigh in relief.

You rinse off quickly, lathering your body with your sweet smelling body wash, the one Sukuna always claims he hates, even though you’ve caught him pressing his face into your neck enough times to know he’s a fucking liar.

By the time you step out, you already feel better.

Fresh.

Clean.

You change into a thin black tank top with no bra because with this kind of heat, absolutely not and a pair of tiny black sleep shorts that look more like cute boxer briefs than actual pajamas.

When you walk back into the room, Sukuna has somehow managed to set up three fans.

Two are pointed directly at your side of the bed.

One is aimed at him.

You have to bite back a smile .

Because as much as he pretends not to care, he’s doing that just for you.

And considering he naturally runs hotter than you do, it’s actually stupidly sweet that he’s willing to suffer a little just so you can sleep comfortably.

Sukuna is already stretched out on his side of the bed, watching some random sports game on TV.

The second he sees you come out, his eyes flick over you once slow, quiet, before he reaches for the remote and turns off the TV.

You climb into bed with no blanket, no sheet just your pillow and the desperate hope that tonight won’t be miserable.

“Feel better woman?” Sukuna asks, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on one hand to look at you.

“Yes,” you say with a satisfied smile, leaning over to give him a quick kiss. “I feel fresh and clean.”

You kiss him again.

Then once more, slower and more passionate this time.

“Now let’s sleep so we can wake up early for the maintenance guys tomorrow,” you murmur softly against his lips.

“Goodnight.”

You turn off the lamp, roll onto your side with your back facing him, and get comfortable.

For about three seconds.

Then you feel it.

That giant, ridiculously warm hand of his slowly sliding over your waist.

And then the grip.

Pulling you right back toward him.

“Ryoo, don’t hug me,” you whine immediately, grabbing his forearm and trying to peel it off of you.

Sukuna actually lifts his head a little, visibly confused.

“What?” he asks, his voice still deep and rough in that annoyingly calm way of his. “Why not?”

“You’re too hot,” you complain, turning your head enough to look at him over your shoulder.

A crooked smile appears on his face.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed baby,” he says, leaning in to press a kiss somewhere between your neck and ear, “but you’re also hot as fuck.”

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and you quickly push at his shoulder.

“That’s not what I mean, idiot.”

He only hums against your skin, clearly not taking you seriously.

“Your body is literally burning,” you say, dragging your eyes dramatically over his entire shirtless body.

Sukuna sighs like you’re deeply inconveniencing him and drops back onto his pillow, folding his arms behind his head.

“Fine. Fine, I won’t touch you woman.”

He closes his eyes for a second before cracking one open again to look at you.

“But once the AC gets fixed, you’re letting me hold you again, right?” he asks. “This isn’t permanent?”

You laugh quietly.

“Of course not,” you say, settling back into your side of the bed. “It’s not like I enjoy sleeping without my husband crushing me.”

That earns the smallest smile from him.

And then, finally, you both fall asleep.

Or at least…

you try to.

At some point in the middle of the night, you start to feel hot again.

Not regular hot.

Miserably hot.

The kind of heat that makes your skin feel sticky and your patience evaporate in your sleep.

You blink awake slowly.

And immediately realize why.

Sukuna has somehow wrapped himself around you again.

You’re practically pinned to his chest, tucked into his side of the bed like some kind of oversized body pillow he refuses to sleep without.

You roll your eyes.

Still half asleep, you carefully untangle yourself from his arms and shift back toward your side of the bed before closing your eyes again.

A while later, it happens again.

That awful heat.

That suffocating warmth all over your body.

You wake up slower this time, only to find his arms around you again.

Except now, somehow, he’s the one on your side of the bed.

You stare at him in sleepy disbelief.

It’s honestly kind of adorable.

He’s probably doing it unconsciously.

His body probably just looks for yours in his sleep without even thinking about it because that’s what he’s used to—finding you.

Which is sweet.

Very sweet.

But also…

does this man seriously not feel any heat at all?

With the patience of a saint, you carefully slip out of his hold again, this time moving slowly enough not to wake him.

Then, very quietly, you climb out of bed and tiptoe out of the room.

You gently shut the bedroom door behind you and glance back one last time, only to see Sukuna completely sprawled across your side of the bed like he owns it.

Typical.

Trying not to make too much noise, you open one of the living room windows and turn on every fan you can find.

Then you collapse onto the couch.

The leather feels wonderfully cool against your skin.

You rest your head against the armrest, close your eyes, and let the breeze from the fan and the open window wash over you.

It feels amazing.

Cool.

Quiet.

Perfect.

Within minutes, you’re asleep again.

This time, much deeper.

Much better.

Hours must pass.

Because the next time you start to feel heat creeping over your body, you don’t wake up right away.

At first, it only registers in your sleep.

A slow warmth from your feet all the way up to your head.

But it’s strongest around your stomach.

You frown slightly in your sleep and try to shift.

Try to move.

But can’t.

Your body feels… trapped.

Sleepily, you force your eyes open.

And there he is.

That idiot somehow follows you all the way to the living room.

Sukuna is asleep on top of you.

Not fully, but enough to completely cage you in.

His head is resting against your chest, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other tucked possessively around your side, and one of his legs is hooked lazily over your hip like he’s physically making sure you can’t escape him again.

You stare down at him in disbelief.

Then exhale through your nose.

“Baby…”

No response.

“Babe.”

Nothing.

“Ryo,” you whisper a little louder this time, looking down at his sleeping face.

Still nothing.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t wake up.

Doesn’t even pretend to feel guilty.

Completely defeated, you let your head fall back against the couch.

Well.

This is your life now.

You lift one hand and gently thread your fingers through his soft pink hair, smoothing it back from his face.

You’re definitely yelling at him tomorrow for being so clingy.

For following you.

For squishing you all night with his stupid overheated body.

You’ll definitely scold him in the morning.

But as you look down at him sleeping so heavily, holding onto you like his body just doesn’t know how to sleep without yours

you can’t deny it.

You really, truly love seeing him like this.

──────────────────────

thank you for reading ♡

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin