ethanhoewke

[ethanhoewke]

this was supposed to just be a lil shitpost sketch but you know i’m physically unable to leave things not fully rendered

anyway here’s bucky napping on the stiddies (steve’s tiddies) - another accidental collab with lovely @rillils 🩷

[ethanhoewke]

K.

A/N: Surgeon Stephen Strange was totally a manwhore!!! I scream as they drag me back to my padded cell. Anywho! I finally finished this goddamn thang. He was a manwhore but also he is so, so earnest and fucking dumb. I have like three other WIPs in progress for this idiot that are all drastically different vibes. In other news, I’m starting ketamine therapy which I’m hoping will help with my fucking depression so I can find the motivation to write again. :’) Surgeon Stephen Strange x female reader, first dates, mutual pining, smut!!!! vaginal sex, oral fem receiving, face sitting, Stephen Strange being a munch, protected sex (he wouldn’t NOT use a condom, come on people), fluff & smut, good vibes all around <3

Word count: 5.8k

Sixteen hours. Nine hundred and sixty minutes. Eleven PM to eleven AM. That’s how long one Doctor Stephen Strange has been on call. Christine has been not so subtly urging him to go home, take a shower, eat a meal, sleep probably. But he doesn’t sleep, not really. In fact, it’s a waste of time in his not so humble opinion. He needs to be awake to think, to memorize, to change the world. He can’t save lives if he’s unconscious.

So, he powers through the bloodshot eyes and lead weight legs. Another laminectomy, another thousand dollars in his bank account, another new car. He sniffs, sitting in his office, shiny accolades and framed pictures with hospital directors and various colleagues staring back at him. If he were honest, which he never really is when it comes to matters of the heart, his incessant urge to work himself into an early grave isn’t the sole reason for him being here going on seventeen hours now. Fuck, has it really been seventeen hours?

The blinds of his office windows are uncharacteristically drawn, giving passerbys an inside look at the opulent yet vapid domain of Doctor Strange. He can’t complain, not really, it’s not warranted. He has more money than he knows what to do with, so he buys and collects and fills up his too big penthouse with shit he doesn’t look twice at. He buys cars, though he only really needs one. He goes on dates, though he isn’t really interested in whatever woman he found at a bar or in the hospital cafeteria. Is he lonely? Sure, but who isn’t?

Of course, though, there’s you. Perfect, lovely, borderline cherubic you. His little Neonatal Intensive Care Unit angel. The NICU is four levels above his realm, and he has absolutely no business going up there. But he does, every single day. He’s getting lazy with his excuses and he knows you’re catching on. You’re smart, not Stephen smart, but it’s nothing to sneeze at. Twelve o’clock on the dot. You all but float past his office, heading to the elevators. He struggles, should he approach now or do a little drive by in an hour? Decisions, decisions.

He decides on the former, nearly tripping out of his desk chair in his enthusiasm. He narrowly escapes the cloying interrogation of one Doctor Palmer, waving her off, long strides eating up the distance to the shiny steel doors. A ding! It’s already heading up to level five. He’ll take the second one, the elegant length of his pointer finger jabbing the button.

On the ride up he debates what’s he’s going to say. He loves making you laugh, in fact, it’s his personal mission to make you laugh at least once every day. Your delicate giggle breathes life into him, it’s like a thousand little wind chimes singing a song only his heart knows. He sorts through the files of his eidetic memory, searching for the perfect joke. The elevator doors part open for him like the Red Sea, and he steps out into the sprawling hallway.

The solemn off-white doors of the NICU stand before him, he takes a breath and then another one, steeling his nerves, chasing away the butterfly swarm in his stomach. If he were a patient, he’d pick up the little phone on the wall. Whichever nurse that picked up would say the usual, “Hello, how can I help you?” And said patient would inform the aforementioned nurse that they’re here to see baby whatever their surname was. But he’s a doctor, and that comes with privileges.

So, he pulls his ID badge from the clip on his scrubs, a little ziiiiiip noise filling the empty space. The door reader chimes in approval, electronic motor swinging the doors open at a snail’s pace. No need to rush on his account. Staff and patients alike are stopped at the entrance, a wide steel sink off to the left side. There’s a pedal at the bottom for water and an automatic soap dispenser. He washes his hands, scrubbing under his nails, his palms, between each finger. He goes about this for thirty seconds, a little extra just in case. The motion activated paper towel dispenser whirs, spitting out a scratchy brown napkin. He crumples it up when finished, tossing it into the bin. The final step, an antibacterial alcohol hand sanitizer. He massages it into his skin and it leaves behind a somewhat tacky feeling.

“Doctor Strange! To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Comes a cheerful voice from his flank. He turns, it’s not you, he knows that. Miriam. Charge nurse, mid-fifties, kind eyes, wrinkle softened features.

He smiles his charming Stephen Strange grin, it's lopsided and boyish. The women (and some men) fall over themselves in the wake of that smile. “Hello Miriam, how’s your day going? How are the little ones?”

This is the dance, he has to get through a sea of social graces to finally reach you. So he’ll make small talk and ask questions and nod along, so long as you’re the light at the end of the tunnel. Miriam, ever the chatter, rambles aimlessly about a set of twins, a social worker, a 30 week preemie finally, finally going home with mom and dad. He nods along, makes the occasional appropriate comment. His mind is elsewhere, of course, because he knows you’re nearby but he’s not exactly sure where.

He finds the time to butt in, “I was hoping you could tell me where a certain RN is?”

Miriam blinks, pausing and then she beams, “Oh, she’s giving a bath right now,” she nods her head in the direction of the room on his left. He pats her arm, smiling appreciatively.

He walks slow, savoring the fizzy feeling of anticipation building up. Simply standing in the doorway, he watches. The row of a variety of incubators, radiant warmers, and bassinets. There’s the ever present soft beeps of dozens of machines. CPAP, heart monitor, pulse ox, et cetera. He sees the set of twins Miriam mentioned, their incubators side by side. The soft glow of bili lights illuminates their little bodies, eye shields covering their faces. He estimates they can’t be older than maybe thirty-two weeks gestation, tiny spindly limbs and soft bellies.

There’s a sharp, shrill cry from the baby you’re currently bathing at a sink. The little guy is clearly not a fan of water and you fuss over him, cooing softly, speaking in a gentle tone, soothing. He can’t help but smile, you’re so naturally maternal. You should be the charge nurse, no you should be the director. He’s not biased whatsoever. Definitely not.

As you gently pat the squealing infant dry, he steps into your domain, taking care to be quiet. You don’t notice him, too wrapped up in getting the baby back into a soft muslin onesie and a little duck patterned hospital blanket. Once he’s returned to his bassinet, a good sign, he’ll probably be discharged soon, Stephen clears his throat.

You look up, and ah, there it is. Those Bambi eyes of yours lock onto him and his heart does a funny little somersault at your shy smile. “How long have you been here?” You break the silence first, the spell isn’t broken, no it’s stronger now. It’s almost a tangible thing, it feels like TV static and aching possibility on Stephen’s tongue.

“Oh, I’d say about five or ten minutes, give or take,” He replies, acting far more casual than he feels, picking up a preemie blood pressure cuff. God, it’s tiny, it could probably fit his thumb.

You cluck your tongue, admonishing and angelic all in one, “Mm, you know that’s not what I mean.”

He lets out something halfway between a snort and a chuckle, “Oh, right, uhh…I’ve been at the hospital for about seventeen hours.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands and his grin widens, his cheeks hurt. You step closer and his heart goes from allegro to presto. He’ll definitely develop some kind of heart murmur if he basks in your presence too long, he can’t help himself though. He is selfish as much as he is giving. His life saving surgeries, his methods, his work is for his own ego as much as it is for the good of the general population.

“Doctor Strange—“ You begin to lecture him, it’s adorable.

“Buh, buh, buh,” He holds a hand up, eyes twinkling with mirth and bite, “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Stephen?”

Your nose scrunches up, he wants to take a picture, immortalize your cute little fucking face. He’d get the biggest canvas print of it money can buy, hang it up in his living room, sip two thousand dollar wine and act like an art history scholar, meditating on the metaphor or whatever of the lines of your face.

“Fine, Stephen,” You huff, trying to act annoyed but failing miserably. The blush dusting your cheeks is a dead giveaway and it goes straight to both of his heads.

“You need to go home. You look exhausted, it’s not healthy to be going at it like this,” You sigh, gesturing vaguely around the room. He’s flattered by how much you seem to care, he wonders if you think about him as much as he thinks about you. You clearly pay enough attention to know his sneaky little habit of staying at work far too long.

“So, what I’m hearing is you’re not pleased to see me? That hurts, sweetheart. I slaved away in the OR, poured over case notes until this morning just so I could run into you,” He quips, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms.

“Mm, didn’t really run into me. You came to my unit and asked for me. Pretty sure that’s actively seeking me out,” You retort, effortlessly able to match his wit. God, he loved these little verbal spars with you. You, worried about his health and chastising. Him, dry and snarky and head over heels for you, just trying to pull a giggle out of you.

“Yeah, and you love it, sweetheart,” Stephen grins, waggling his eyebrows for effect.

That earns him an eye roll and a small smile that you try to hide but he catches it. He grabs it, hangs onto it, memorizes it. You pick at an imaginary piece of lint on your scrubs, gaze casting down demurely.

“Go home after this, okay?” You scold in a subdued voice, eyes flicking up to lock onto his.

Stephen sees an opening. He takes it before he can second guess himself.

“I’ll go home on one condition,” He affirms, pushing up from the counter, stepping forward. He keeps a respectful distance, but he’s hovering close enough in your orbit that your scent hits him square in the nose. Something sweet mixed with antiseptic and latex gloves.

“And what’s that?” You inquire, shifting from one foot to the other, the soles of your clogs squeaking on the linoleum. A hip juts out, head tilting to the side, arms crossing. He has you exactly where he wants you, he goes in for the kill.

“Have dinner with me,” He coaxes, he doesn’t doubt himself, doesn’t give himself time to back out.

You’re momentarily stunned and it shows, posture tensing and then relaxing. Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, “You want me to have dinner with you?”

He hums in affirmation, rocking on the balls of his feet, “What time are you off?” He reaches into the pocket of his lab coat, tugging out a stick of spearmint gum. He crumples the foil wrapper, tossing the stick in his mouth. He chews, once, twice, saliva flooding his palate. He waits, watching every nervous twitch and the way blood rushes to your cheeks.

“Um, midnight. Standard twelve hour shift- are you sure about doing this tonight?” You mumble, brow pinching, musing the logistics in your mind, silent. “I’m gonna be all gross and sweaty. And nothing is gonna be open…are we eating at 7/11 or what?”

“Take a shower, I’m night owl anyway, and I’ll cook for you at my place,” He declares, sweeping his hands out in a grand ah-ha motion, a smug smirk on his lips.

Now, when Stephen says he’ll cook for you, that’s an exaggeration. A generous exaggeration. Stephen’s godlike skills in nearly every aspect of his life have never translated into the kitchen. So, he’d order out. Call in a favor at some ridiculously overpriced restaurant, get one of everything— No, that’d be overdoing it. He realizes you’re speaking again, he’s not paying attention, too wrapped up in the mental gymnastics of what entree he should order for you, what does he usually see you eating in the hospital’s cafeteria…

“Sorry?” He clears his throat, tilting his head to the side like a ridiculously handsome puppy.

“I said I don’t have your address,” You repeat, quirking an eyebrow, “Or your phone number, for that matter.”

A flush spreads up Stephen’s neck, “Ah, an oversight on my part. Which will be remedied right now.”

After exchanging phone numbers, Stephen bids you farewell, washing his hands one more time for good measure at the door to the unit. When he returns to his office, he has about forty-five or so minutes until his next scheduled operation, he texts you his address and tries to return his focus back to work.

•••

It becomes abundantly clear that Stephen has overestimated the high end restaurants of New York. Because by the time he gets home and goes through the motions of getting ready for you, it’s quarter past twelve in the morning and nothing, no one is open to take orders for carry out.

Fuuuuuck. Okay, this is fine, totally fine. No big deal, surely something is open nearby. After all, this is the city that never sleeps.

It winds up being a pizza place, family owned and a hole in the wall. They deliver, which is nice and convenient for him. Stephen’s not entirely sure what toppings you like on your pizza, so he opts to play it safe with plain cheese. He fishes out a bottle of wine, Moscato. He recalls from a Christmas party that you detest dry wines, especially red.

He sets up the table, candles, jazz playing softly on a turntable in the corner of the living room. He’s wearing a tie, does he look ridiculous? He fusses over his reflection. Pizza and a tie don’t go together. So, he yanks it off, tossing it onto the sofa, undoing the first three buttons of his shirt and rolls his sleeve up to his elbows. He looks at himself again, willing his posture to just relax. Okay, good, he looks more casual, laidback. Now all that’s left to do is wait.

The waiting, admittedly, takes far longer than Stephen anticipated. He’s reheated the pizza at least thrice before his phone chimes with the text from you notifying that you’re on your way up. His heart does a funny little flip as he shuffles towards the door, ready to open it at the first knock.

And then, there you are looking like sunshine personified. You’re smiling up at him, tired but shy and tentative. He feels a twinge of guilt, arranging this date so late and right after you get off, but he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait another second and he knows he’d lose his nerve. So here he is, stepping aside to welcome you into his place.

“Wow…” You breathe out, all wide eyed, doing a little spin to look around the penthouse. It’s decorated in the same clinical manner as his office at the hospital. Clean white walls, floor to ceiling windows, everything sleek and modern. “This is very…clean.”

Stephen blinks, “Uh, yeah? I have a maid…so that’s probably why.”

You laugh sheepish and nervous, rubbing the back of your neck, “Sorry, it’s just…this place looks like a museum or a model home, you know? Very cool and empty. You don’t have any knick knacks or even a throw blanket or something on the couch.” You gesture around the space as you ramble, a nervous habit of yours. And fuck, were you nervous. You’d been dancing around Stephen’s flirtations for months now. Because if there were two things you knew, it was this: one, Stephen was a notorious flirt. And two, he had this weird longtime, on again/off again relationship with Christine Palmer. And you preferred to go under the radar at work, the last thing you needed was stirring up trouble with Stephen and Christine.

He feels his cheeks heat up in something akin to embarrassment, “Oh, right.” He mutters lamely. Stephen knows his place isn’t exactly the warmest or coziest, but you pointing it out so bluntly makes him flustered in a way he hasn’t been since grad school. His apartment could be cozier, but it also could far more sparse. Stephen tried his best to toe the delicate line between the two. Apparently he wasn’t doing as good a job as he thought.

You throw your hands up in a gesture of surrender, “I mean, I like it! It’s very…um, bright and monotone?”

A surprised, rueful chuckle bursts from Stephen’s chest, “Wow, that might be the worst backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.” He huffs dryly, running a lithe hand through his hair.

You can’t help but laugh along with him, your cheeks heating up, “Yeah, well, it’s not my fault your apartment is morgue-esque.”

Stephen actually chortles at that, the crows feet around his eyes crinkling up in a way that makes him look rather dashing and wise, “Okay, I think that’s enough critiquing my decorating skills. Haven’t you noticed I practically live at work?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” you huff, rolling your eyes and smiling, “But I have a sneaking suspicion you also hang around for ungodly amounts of time just to be able to come bug me when I clock in.”

Stephen blushes. He actually fucking blushes and it’s a little mortifying, how easily you can fluster him and make him lose his cool, collected demeanor. Stephen knows there’s no use in denying it now, after all you’ve agreed to a date and the said date is commencing. So, “Ah, yeah. I’m that obvious, huh?”

You grin, triumphant and far too smug for his liking, but fuck if that isn’t incredibly attractive, “You’re easy to read. Like a book written for dumb children.”

Stephen clutches his hand to his chest dramatically, scoffing in mock offense, “Dumb children? I’m insulted, sweetheart, truly.” If Stephen were being honest, he honestly believed he was being a bit more subtle. He won’t dwell on it, though. You’re here and that’s all that matters now. If anything, he’ll lay it on even thicker.

“So, I believe I was promised food?” You ask, tilting your head to the side coyly.

“Oh!” Stephen jolts, pulled from his reverie, “Food, right. Of course. I ord—cooked! I cooked us something. Come take a seat.”

Stephen pulls out your seat, ever the gentleman. The table has a simple white cloth draped across it, a small vase with a rose, and a few little tea candles lit on it. Stephen tried his best to make the setting romantic as his limited time to prepare allowed. The bottle of wine is chilling in the fridge as Stephen pulls the pizza out of the oven, hoping you don’t notice the cardboard boxes they arrived in, stuffed into the trash.

When he presents your plate with a flourish, you quirk a brow, “You made me pizza? From scratch?”

Stephen flushes in embarrassment, “Yes?”

You snort, shaking your head, “Uh-huh, sure.”

But you’re ravenous, so you won’t complain when it comes to free food. The meal is eaten in silence, save for the clink of utensils because Stephen insists on eating his pizza with a fork and knife of all things. You tease him relentlessly for it, causing the faint carnation pink on his cheeks to bloom into full blown scarlet. The wine is delicious, exactly what you like, you’re secretly impressed. It’s bubbly, fruity, dancing on your tongue in bursts of sweetness. By the time you’ve finished your third slice of pizza, you have a nice little buzz going.

The buzz is lowering your inhibitions, dangerously so. So, you blurt out, “Your hair is nice. Like a skunk.”

Stephen nearly spits out the wine he’s finishing off, “Excuse me? My hair reminds you of a skunk?”

“Um, yes,” You reply earnestly, reaching across the table, placing a hand on each side of Stephen’s temple. His hair is infuriatingly soft, you run your fingers through it, admiring the feel of it between each digit.

Stephen freezes, because you’re touching him. You’re actually touching him, running your fucking fingers through his hair like it’s the most normal thing in the world. When in reality, the most you’ve ever touched him was the odd handshake. So, Stephen stays remarkably still, not wanting to break the odd, dizzying spell that’s fallen over the both of you.

“Thanks,” He breathes out, though being compared to a skunk isn’t necessarily dazzling praise. You hum, nodding, dazed and devastatingly gorgeous. Stephen hesitates, because is this a move? A signal? Do you want him to kiss you? Should he cross that line?

You beat him to the punch.

You borderline launch yourself at Stephen, tipsy and sloppy. But your lips slot against his like they belong there, tacky with lipgloss, tasting of Moscato and tomato sauce. One of Stephen’s hand cups the back of your head, holding you in place, kissing you slow and filthy. Fuck, he’s imagined this countless times and the fantasies are nothing compared to the real thing.

Silverware clatters to the floor, loud and jarring. In your haste, your hip bumped the table, so you break apart from Stephen with a nervous giggle.

“We should…” Stephen nods his head towards the sofa, “Uh, less hazards in the way. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt on my watch, sweetheart.”

You nod dumbly, “The couch. Yes…that’s a good idea.”

Stephen and you make your way to the large sectional, equally giddy and nervous. Stephen settles down, legs spread wide, and he fully expects you to sit beside him. But, you surprise him by taking a seat in his lap of all places. Your weight, your warmth drives him mad, he fights the urge to let his eyes roll back into his head. His hands automatically go to your waist, holding you, steadying you. He squeezes the dip once, savoring the gentle give of your flesh.

You waste no time, crashing your lips against his again. The kiss is slower, filthy, sending a molten, heady feeling straight to your pussy. So, you chase that feeling and grind down against Stephen’s lap, practically purring into the kiss. Fuck, he feels big. You’re going to be pleasantly achy tomorrow.

You thread your fingers through his soft hair, licking into his mouth, tasting the ridges on the roof of his mouth. Stephen groans, low and rough into the kiss, his tongue tangling and massaging yours. His hands drift, exploratory, down to your ass. His gorgeous, lifesaving hands dig into the meat of your ass and squeeze, dragging your hips down to grind into him again.

You arch, tits pressing into his broad chest, ass curving further into his large hands. Your body is on fire, Stephen is coaxing sounds from you that would be humiliating in any other circumstance. And when he pulls back, perfectly disheveled, lips all spit shiny and swollen, you grin at the sight. He’s perfect, sex appeal personified. You never stood a chance.

“How far do you wanna take this?” He murmurs breathlessly, brushing a wayward strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture tender and completely opposite from the almost mauling he was just bestowing upon you.

You hesitate now, because he’s your coworker and all the reasons you’d been artfully dodging his advances are rearing their ugly head. But, god, do you want him. You want him so badly it hurts. And you know women don’t get blue balls, in fact you’re a firm believer that it’s just bullshit to guilt trip the female population but…if you don’t fuck Stephen or at the very least dry hump him to completion, you’re definitely going to experience something within the vein of blue balls.

So, you play it safe, “Well, how far do you want to take this?”

Stephen chuckles ruefully, giving your ass a playful squeeze, “Do I really need to spell it out for you, sweetheart?” He gives a sinfully slow grind against your clothed mound, letting his body do the talking.

You smack your lips together, shaking your head vehemently, “Mm, nope. Nope I got it.” You squeak out, unbearably flustered and turned on.

“May I take your top off?” Stephen murmurs, brushing a thumb gently across the midriff exposed from your blouse riding up. You hum in affirmation, raising your hands above your head. Stephen makes quick work of the fabric, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Stephen’s pupils blow out, inky black swallowing the cool blue of his irises. He inhales shakily, because fuck are you pretty. Which, he already knew, but being able to see you bare…he worries he won’t last. He’s been building this up in his mind for months and you’re leaps and bounds ahead, better, even more gorgeous than any fantasy his mind conjures up.

Your bra joins the quickly forming pile of clothing on the floor. And when your tits are bare, nipples hardening in the cool air of his apartment, Stephen can’t help but bury his face between them, groaning. He feels like a teenager seeing his first pair of tits, the way he wants to motorboat you. He settles on a happy medium, sucking one nipple into the warm cavern of his mouth, letting his teeth glide lightly on the bud, teasing. You whimper, arching into his mouth, greedily pressing more of your breast into it. He’s just as skilled in bed as he is in the operating room.

His left hand departs from kneading your pillowy breasts, sneaking down the soft length of your abdomen. Slipping down the front of your jeans, finding where you’re slick and aching for him. You feel like heaven against his probing fingers, syrupy and molten. He lavishes one last worshipful suckle to your tits, pulling back to gaze at you with hooded, dark eyes full of a million dirty promises.

“Sit on my face,” He whispers, voice wrecked and throaty. It’s not a request, it’s a prayer, and who are you to not indulge the man? So, you nod, feeling nervous but the idea is incredibly appealing. You stand from his lap, shucking your jeans and panties down your legs. They’re kicked off, tossed to the side without second thought. Before you can second guess yourself or feel a modicum of shyness, you nudge Stephen back and straddle his face.

You’re momentarily mortified when Stephen buries his face between your legs and inhales loudly. It’s obscene and indecent and makes you even wetter. He moans at your scent, his eyes rolling back into his head, hands digging into the meat of your thighs and spreading you, holding you open to him. And then, his tongue enters the picture. Gliding slowly, he licks at your cunt from hole to clit. You shudder, gasping, rocking down onto his face.

Then, Stephen really starts to eat you, fingers spreading your labia majora apart, finding your clit with a surgeon’s precision. He nips once, twice and then suckles at the swollen bud like he’s trying to get venom out. You throw your head back, moaning brokenly, unashamedly rutting against his face. A hand winds into his hair, desperate for some kind of anchor against the storm of sensations Stephen is inflicting on your aching cunt.

“Oh my god,” You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut, grinding into Stephen’s eager mouth. Your thighs clamp around his head, full body shivers wracking through you. He doubles his efforts, slurping and moaning into your slick flesh. You realize with startling clarity the bastard is going to make you come in no time at all, a feat even your most skilled past lover couldn’t pull off.

“J-Jesus Christ!” You squeak, your entire body tensing up, dangling on the precipice of something major. And when Stephen’s fingers join in, two elegant digits sliding home and curling with expertise, you’re done for. Your head snaps down, tucking your chin to your chest, riding Stephen’s face almost violently, bucking against his stupidly handsome features.

And Stephen is getting off from the spectacle of it all, his cock throbbing and leaking steadily in his pants. He could come just like this, untouched, devouring your pretty pussy. You shatter, bright and burning, squealing, jaw dropping as your cunt gushes eagerly into Stephen’s waiting mouth. He moans in reply, eagerly lapping up every wave of slick ecstasy that pools out of your throbbing pussy.

Your limbs aren’t working, you can barely fucking breathe, so Stephen gently maneuvers you to switch places with him, turning you to lie prone. You lay on your stomach, hiding your beet red face against the cushions of the sofa, the sound of Stephen’s belt clinking joining the symphony of your panting. There’s the sound of a condom wrapper being torn open, then Stephen carefully shifts your sticky thighs apart.

He kneels in the space between your legs, dragging the head of his cock from your clit to nudge at your entrance. You jolt at the sensation, sensitive but desperate for more. A hand smooths down the curve of your spine, finding its home on your ass, groping, “Relax,” Stephen murmurs into your ear, soothing and sexy all at once.

He nudges in slow and steady, inch by glorious inch stretching you open. It’s heaven and hell all at once. You keen, pitching high, arching your ass up subtly. The fullness is intensified by the position, and you’re lost to it, no choice left but to open yourself to him. The hand on your ass squeezes tight, short nails digging into your supple skin. Once Stephen is fully seated in your fluttering cunt, he exhales shakily, head dipping to rest between your shoulder blades.

“Knew your pussy’d feel like heaven,” He groans, sending another flood of liquid arousal pooling between your legs. You moan in response, you wouldn’t be able to string words together right now even if you tried. Stephen has reduced you to a whiny, drooling mess.

He pulls out slowly, till just the crown notches at your entrance, and then buries himself to the hilt once more. The pace he sets is brutal, allowing you no time to adjust. His cock bullies you, mean and unrelenting, veins dragging deliciously against your inner walls. Each thrust punches a breathless sound from you, your toes curling, thighs tensing up. The noises spilling from Stephen’s lips are borderline pornographic, you always secretly loved his voice and the way he sounds fucking you is truly something to behold.

Stephen slips a hand around your hip, encouraging you to lift your hips up slightly. His fingers find your clit once more, rubbing precise circles around the oversensitive bud. You bury your face into the couch cushions, moaning wantonly, bucking restlessly against his fingers. Stephen fucks you mean and fast, expertly guiding you towards another mind shattering orgasm.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this,” He groans out, increasing the pressure against your clit, “Knew you’d be a good fuck. Shit, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You whine at his words, because the fact that he wanted this just as badly as you, it absolutely melts you. You want him—no, need him to know you feel the same, you’ve craved the same things. You should’ve done this far sooner.

“Me too,” you sigh out, wriggling your hips back, desperate for more, “I love your hands. They’re so nice, fuck, I’ve imagined them on my body, inside me, in my mouth.”

Stephen groans in response, his free hand snaking up, seeking out your kiss swollen lips. You part your lips immediately, taking three spindly digits into your mouth and sucking on them, a comfort against the toe curling orgasm that’s quickly building in your belly. Stephen’s cock throbs as you deepthroat his fingers, his rhythm transforming from methodical to sloppy. He’s close, unbearably so, but he won’t come before you earn your second orgasm. So he backs off a bit, slowing down.

His attention zeroes in on your clit and that spongy spot deep in your pussy. He bends down, sucking and biting at the slope of your neck, dragging his cock slow and steady. He pinches your clit between forefinger and thumb, rubbing mercilessly. And that’s enough, you come again, harder, brighter, shivering. His name is a prayer, sobbing it like scripture. The heady feeling of your cunt pulsing around him is more than enough of an invitation to join you.

Stephen bites down on the curve of your neck, groaning as his eyes roll back and he floods the condom with his potent seed. He rocks, gentling you both through the numbing pleasure. When the last of the aftershocks fade, buzzing away into blissful nothingness, he pulls out. He inhales sharply at the loss of pressure and warmth. Stephen presses a trail of soft, adoring kisses down the curve of your spine.

Once the condom is disposed of, he scoops your pliant form up, carrying you down the hall to his bedroom. He cleans you up, taking extra care with the warm washcloth between your thighs. An hour later, when you’re all snuggled up in bed, eating cold pizza, you ask, “What time do you have to go in today?”

Stephen chuckles softly, massaging the swell of your hip, “Actually, I’m off. A preemptive measure.”

You gasp in mock offense, smacking his bicep, “You ass! You never take time off. I see you even on your alleged days off. So, you naturally assumed I would just fall into bed with you and stay the night?”

Stephen shrugs, grinning boyishly, “Call it a hunch.”

“You think far too highly of yourself,” You scoff, but there’s no bite behind you. So, you smile and lean into his side, melting.

“Well, you just had first hand experience with my sexual prowess. You’d think highly of yourself too if you were me,” Stephen quips, sneaking a quick bite of the pizza in your hand.

That earns an eye roll, but you can’t help agreeing with him. He is just that good.

[ethanhoewke]

So I've had this very Bucky Barnes thought running through my head...

“So responsive, so beautiful,” “I could spend hours just tasting you, exploring every inch of your delectable body.”

What if Bucky was legit serious and did spend hours fulfilling his promise. 😳

This is in my inbox for soooo long. While I absolutely love the idea I just didn’t get myself to write anything for it so far? But let’s try to make a small Drabble out of it, shall we?

MINORS DNI! 18+, smut.

Boyfriend!Bucky who loves to have you all overstimulated and responsive underneath him while his head is buried between your thighs.

“M-mhm, B-Buck–“ you whine, trying to wiggle away from your boyfriend’s skilled tongue. Bucky growls at you, his fingers digging further into the soft skin of your hips as he holds you in place for him. His tongue pushing into your cunt. “T-too much, p-please, B-Buck.”

Bucky lifts his head, his lips and chin glistening from the mixture of your arousal and his saliva as he looks at you. His tongue darting out, gliding over his plump lips with a low moan rumbling in his chest. “What’s too much, babydoll?”

You whine, trying to form a sentence when two of his fingers sink into your tight hole. Your back arching, your breathing picking up as he curls his fingers against your soft spot. “B-Buck!”

“Yes, babydoll?” Bucky asks softly, burying his head back between your spread thighs. Your hips stuttering when his lips are wrapped around your clit, suckling softly. “Ya have to tell me what you want.”

“G-gonna c-cum… I-i can’t cu-cum anymore,” you breathe out in a quiet whimper. Bucky’s playing with your pussy for hours, pulling one after another orgasm from you.

He chuckles against you, licking a strap from your clenching hole to your clit. You buck your hips, trying to wiggle away but at the same time you’re so close to your orgasm that you want to press further into him. His thick fingers keep thrusting lazily into you, storming your spongy spot with every movement.

“So responsive, so beautiful,” Bucky hums. He adores the way you keep wiggling while you chase your orgasm. Your legs tightening around his broad shoulders, caging him in.

When he came home after work and you started to make out, he already praised you how responsive you always are to his touch and then he told you he could spend hours between yours legs, eating you out and making you feel good. You laughed but he kept promise.

“I love exploring and cherishing every single inch of your delectable body, babydoll,” he growls against your folds, his tongue working against your sensitive bundle of nerves to bring you closer to the edge. “You can gimme one more, can’t you? C’mon, babydoll, gimme another orgasm.”

Your moans get louder, you throw your head back into the pillow while Bucky keeps thrusting his fingers into you, his lips closing around your clit once more. With a low whine, your fingers in his brown locks you come all over his tongue.

“That’s it, good girl,” Bucky hums, working his fingers inside of you until your legs are shaking. You pull Bucky up, pouting at him. He leans up, removing his fingers before sucking them clean and bringing his lips to hover above yours. “Such a good girl, my good girl.”

Taglist: @rogersbarber @loki-laufeyson68 @etherealdisneyvillainness @winterschildren8 @rnurse-kole @kimmie113080 @sergeantbarnessdoll @sebastianstanisahotmf @mercurial-chuckles @holylulusworld @randomawesomeperson102 @looking1016 @multiversefanfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @alexxavicry @gremlin-girly @grilledcheesewithjalapeno @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @irisk12 @lilyalone @iris-xoxo-juhu @fckedupandbeautiful @hisredheadedgoddess28 @princesscore-angel @casa-boiardi @blackhawkfanatic @mrsalexstan @thesarcasmqueen-22 @bamitzzsam @feynightlight @ethanhoewke @kandis-mom @peachy-satan00 @armystay89 @queen-honeybee-stories @p1nkgirly333

[ethanhoewke]

i feel like no one appreciates brattiness anymore like what do u mean u don't like me giving u an attitude on purpose so that you'll fuck it straight out of me???? let me annoy you so much that you just have to throw me on the bed and remind me to have some manners around u

[ethanhoewke]

“he’s so babygirl”

babe he just killed somebody.

[ethanhoewke]

“he’s so babygirl”

babe he just killed somebody.

[ethanhoewke]

Considering they used this photo and just photoshopped it.

I'm pretty sure they can use this pic too, yknow, just to soft launch their marriage or whatever. No photoshop necessary

[ethanhoewke]

i love my gay boys <3

[ethanhoewke]

them in civil war

[ethanhoewke]

I know sambucky is never going to be canon but I hope they have the uncle who brings his "roommate" to every family function vibe going on forever

[ethanhoewke]

"why does Captain America call you babygirl?"

[ethanhoewke]

I see no difference

[ethanhoewke]

thinkign about characters i like being sweet and tender with each other

[ethanhoewke]

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

[ethanhoewke]

[ethanhoewke]

Sugar, Sugar (Logan Howlett) nsfw

A/N: old man!logan, fem!reader in early 20s, age gap, smut, fluff, lingerie, unprotected sex, the beginning of sugar daddy!logan😏

If there was one cliché in Logan’s relationship with you, it was the fact that he very well might be your sugar daddy - not that either of you would say it out loud. Logan just liked taking care of you. Liked knowing you had nice things, that you were spoiled in a way you never had been before. It wasn’t about money; it was about you.

About the way your eyes lit up when he got you something you loved, the way you’d bite your lip and grin as you twirled in a new dress he bought you, or how you never took off the gold necklace he gifted you for your birthday. He wasn’t a man of many words, but you felt how much he adored you every time you caught yourself in the mirror, wearing something he picked out just for you. And he felt it too, especially when you wore those pretty little dresses for him, teasing him, straddling his lap and riding him slow, knowing damn well how much he loved seeing you in the things he bought.

Tonight, he had something special for you. You came home one evening to find a sleek black box on the bed, a small card placed on top in Logan’s familiar, almost-too-neat handwriting.

Wear it for me tonight.

Your stomach flipped with excitement as you opened the box, your fingers brushing over the delicate lace inside. It was a deep, rich red, sheer in just the right places, soft satin straps and intricate lacework making it equal parts elegant and dangerous. You swallowed hard, a slow smirk spreading across your lips. Logan knew exactly what he was doing.

When you stepped into the living room later that night, Logan was sitting on the edge of the couch, whiskey in hand, his broad frame relaxed in a pair of jeans, his flannel unbuttoned to showcase thar white undershirt taut over his chest. He looked up at the sound of your footsteps and his grip on the glass tightened at the sight of you. “Darlin’,” He murmured, his voice lower than usual.

Your smirk widened as you did a purposefully slow turn, letting him take it all in. “You like it?” Your hands smoothed over your ass and waist, turning and cupping your breasts in the sheer material to obstruct the view.

Logan didn’t answer immediately. He set his whiskey aside, his eyes raking over every inch of you. Mapping every little faint mark he had once left on your skin and which he would go back over tonight. Then, finally, in that low, gruff tone that sent shivers down your spine, he said, “C’mere.” You took your time crossing the room, reveling in the way his hungry gaze followed your every movement. When you reached him, Logan pulled you onto his lap effortlessly, his rough hands sliding over the soft lace, gripping your hips, making you feel small in his grasp. His fingers trailed up to the thin satin straps, toying with them as he murmured, “You look real pretty in this, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your thighs tightening around his as his hands roamed lower, his touch slow, deliberate. You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear. “You have good taste, old man. Almost expected you to be into ankle length nightgowns.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head as he pressed a kiss to your collarbone right next to the dangling charm of the necklace he had gifted you. “Smart mouth,” He muttered before snapping the lingerie straps at your shoulder so it made you gasp. His fingers trailed between your thighs, feeling the heat already pooling there and he smirked against your skin. “Let’s see how much of that sass you still got after I’m done with you.”

The air in your apartment was heavier now, your breathy gasps mingling with Logan's low groans as you moved on top of him. Your legs straddled his lap, your hips rolling steadily as your arms stayed locked around his neck. Your fingers tangled in his thick hair, tugging whenever his mouth found its way to your breasts. Logan's lips were rough and demanding, his teeth and beard scraping lightly over your sensitive skin before he soothed it with his tongue. His large hands gripped your hips, kneading and guiding your movements as if he couldn't get enough of the way your body responded and reacted to him.

Occasionally, he brought one of those hands down on your ass, the sharp smack making you gasp louder, your heat tightening around him in response. "That's it," Logan growled, his voice low and gravelly. "You feel so damn good, sweetheart. Tightest thing I've ever had." You whimpered, burying your face in his neck as your body trembled, his words sending heat straight through you.

Then, as if the universe itself had a cruel sense of humor, there was a loud knock at your door. "Shit," You hissed, your movements faltering as you froze. Logan didn't miss a beat, his hands tightening on your hips as he thrust upward, making you cry out softly before you slapped a hand over your mouth.

"Don't stop now," Logan murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Let 'em wait."

"Logan," You whispered, your tone a mix of exasperation and arousal. "I have to-"

"No, you don't," He said firmly, his voice laced with amusement as he kept himself buried in you. His grip on you shifted, and before you could protest, he flipped the positions, pinning you to the couch. "Stay quiet if you want 'em to go away.” He teased, his lips brushing against your ear as he began thrusting into you again. You bit down on your lip, your hands flying to his shoulders as you tried - and failed - to stifle your cries. Your body clenched around him, the sensation driving Logan wild as he buried himself deeper, his pace steady but relentless.

The knock came again, louder this time, but neither of you paid it any mind. You arched beneath him, your nails digging into his back as you reached the finals peaks of ecstasy together, your muffled moan vibrating against his neck while Logan groaned low in his throat, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside you.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of heavy breathing. Then Logan pulled back slightly, his lips brushing against your temple. "Now you can answer the door.” He murmured, smirking. You glared at him, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed your flustered state. You pushed at his chest and scrambled off the couch, grabbing his discarded button-down from the floor and slipping it on. It hung low on your thighs, covering just enough as you hurried to the door.

When you opened it, you found your building manager standing there, clipboard in hand and a mildly annoyed expression on his face. "Miss…”He stalled, glancing down at his notes for your last name. "I'm here to collect the rent for the month. You're a little overdue." Your heart sank.

In all the chaos of your week - and your time with Logan - you’d completely forgotten to withdraw the money from the bank. "Right, uh..." You started, stammering as you tried to think of an excuse.

Before you could say anything more, Logan appeared behind you, his jeans hastily thrown on but his chest still bare. He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and handed the manager a wad of cash without hesitation. "Here.” Logan said without fanfare.

The manager blinked, clearly surprised, but he didn't argue. "Thanks," He muttered, scribbling something on his clipboard before handing you a receipt. "Appreciate it."

As the door closed, you turned to Logan, your hands pressing the receipt into your chest. "You didn't have to do that.” You said, though your voice softened as you looked up at him.

Logan shrugged, his expression unreadable as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket. "Didn't want you stressin’ about it.”

You stepped closer, your hands resting on his chest. "You're always taking care of me.” You murmured, your tone filled with both gratitude and affection.

Logan smirked, his hand coming up to cup your face. "Someone's gotta do it. You're too damn busy trying to handle everything on your own."

Your lips curved into a small smile as you nuzzled into his rough palm and then you leaned up to kiss him, your voice soft against his mouth. "Thank you. It really means a lot."

Logan's arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as he deepened the kiss. "Don’t thank me, darlin’,” He murmured, his voice low and warm. “It’s my job to make sure you’re taken care of.”

In my old man!logan feels today:3

Also, we are officially at 3,500 followers today!🥺 It makes me feel so grateful to know that that many of you have enjoyed what my humble little blog has provided. Thank you all💖

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[ethanhoewke]

what I think will happen if I message my mutuals