solinadarvenel-library

[solinadarvenel-library]

let me hear you

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: bucky barnes wants you to be louder during sex.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, loud sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, bit of dumbification, dirty talk, praise kink, barely there breeding kink, pet names (baby, pretty girl, sweet girl), aftercare, established relationship

word count: 2.6k

a/n: for week 9 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event, we had a free week and y'all voted for post-Thunderbolts Bucky encouraging reader to be louder during sex, so here we are! i don't have much to say about this one, except that it was fun to write and i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡

prompt: FREE WEEK

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

It was late at night in New Avengers tower and while the city that never slept still bustled on down below, you were far away from the noise in Bucky Barnes’ room. There, it was nearly silent, save for his ragged grunts and the rhythmic sound of his bed’s headboard banging lightly against the wall.

Bucky’s big body was settled in the cradle of your thighs, his hard length deep inside your tight heat, and you felt surrounded by the super-soldier, overwhelmed in the best way. His thick biceps were wrapped around your shoulders, pinning you beneath him, his hands holding your head like something precious.

All you wanted to do was let yourself give in to the pleasure of the moment, the presence of his handsome face so close to yours, the feeling of his breath huffing against your cheek in warm pants—but something held you back. No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t let go. 

A whine worked its way up your throat, but it died on your tongue, trapped behind your teeth. Bucky’s thumb pulled roughly at your lower lip, freeing it from where it had been caught between your teeth.

“Let me hear you, pretty girl,” he rumbled, punctuating his words with a hard thrust, his heavy cock sliding so deep inside your body, it felt like he was making a home for himself—and you had absolutely no problem with that. “Let me hear how good ‘m making you feel, yeah, baby?”

“Bucky.” His name was a soft, pitiful moan that ended in a hitched breath, a gasp, a barely-there whimper. 

He was so deep inside you, barely pulling out before rocking all the way back in, grinding into your cunt and making your slick hole stretch to fit his big cock. 

He’d slowed his pace to an excruciatingly decadent roll of his hips, making you feel every ridge, every vein, every hard inch of his stiff length dragging out of you before sliding right back in. He hit the end of you with every thrust, an exquisite kiss of pain that made the pleasure more devastatingly intense.

It was maddening how good he felt. Bucky’s cock filled you up just enough to make you feel him without hurting you, and he thrust deep inside you with just enough power to steal the breath from your lungs every time he bottomed out. 

It was agonizing, and so transcendentally perfect that you hated how you still couldn’t get lost in it.

Another, sharper whine crawled up the back of your throat, and you tried to resist the urge to stifle it. 

You’d always thought the sounds you made during sex were silly, ridiculous, embarrassing, and nobody had ever cared enough to want to hear you. So you didn’t know how to let it out, how to get out of your own head and just let go. 

“I can hear you thinking, baby,” Bucky murmured in your ear, his hips moving infinitesimally harder and faster as he thrust between your thighs, burying his cock deep in your cunt. “Stop thinking—just feel me, sweet girl.”

His voice was rough with his own pleasure, but the affection in his tone was clear as day, and you melted slightly at the command in his words. Your thoughts began to slow, to soften, and you focused on Bucky’s voice, on the rocking of his hips as he claimed you.

“Feel how good my cock fills you up,” Bucky went on, whispering filthy words in your ear while he thrust deep. “Feel how good your cunt’s sucking on me, trying to drag me deeper. Ya want me deeper inside you, baby? Want my cock buried balls-deep in your pussy so the tip’s kissing your womb, huh?”

“Fuck, Bucky, yes—god yes,” you cried softly on a choked whimper, unable to be louder even though you wanted to. You wanted Bucky to hear how good you felt, but it was so hard to let go and let yourself be loud for him.

The super-soldier hiked your thighs up higher, until your knees were practically digging into his ribs, and his cock pressed deeper inside you, until he reached the very end of you. 

A streak of white-hot pleasure shot straight through you, lighting up every nerve ending in your body until sparks burst behind your eyes. Your gasp at the feeling was shrill, louder than any sound you’d made before during sex, but the cry of bliss cut off in your throat and you were reduced to sharp, panting breaths.

Bucky grunted, pushing past your fluttering inner muscles in a rolling, thrusting movement that had his cock pounding deep into your pussy, hitting that spot that had fireworks bursting in your eyes and reducing you down to little more than a puddle of pleasure.

“Louder—you can let go and be louder, baby, I know ya can,” Bucky growled against your cheek, his lips a soft contrast to the roughness of his stubble. His scruff rasped over your skin, his breath coming in hot, sharp pants that had goose bumps rising down your neck and along your arms.

“I don’t—Bucky, I can’t,” you tried to protest, your head thrashing side to side on the pillow as pleasure, so much pleasure, hammered through your body and drummed at the edges of your mind. And still, your throat stifled your moans, the sounds coming out as choked, sputtering gasps.

“You can, sweet girl,” he promised, cradling your head gently in his hands and speaking the words into your jaw. “Just let go, baby, I’ve got you—go mindless for me and just feel me. I’m right here, I’ve got you, pretty girl, I’ve got you. Let me hear you, please.”

A keening whimper wrenched free from your lips at Bucky’s strangled, desperate plea. Something was building deep in your core, a storm gathering and twisting your belly as the pleasure in your body ratcheted higher, sending you careening toward your release.

The closer you got, the easier it was to do as Bucky said, letting your thoughts go quiet as you focused on him. You felt his breath on your cheek, his scruff grazing your skin, his hands cupping the back of your head, his broad, heavy body pressing you down into the bed. 

You felt the thick length of his cock sliding into your wet cunt, the ridges dragging against your sensitive inner walls as he thrust deep, pressing into that spot inside you. You felt him filling you up, his cock twitching with his own building release, his pelvic bone rubbing against your clit with every grinding thrust.

Pleasure was dancing through every nerve in your body and you focused on that. You focused on the feeling of being overwhelmed, of being cherished by Bucky and like the most perfect, sexual creature to ever live. You were suffused in a delicious, blissful warmth, and you never wanted it to end.

A moan spilled from your lips, so loud it nearly startled you back into yourself, but then Bucky thrust deep into your cunt, rocking against your messy folds and puffy clit until you were gasping in pleasure. Your knees dug into his ribs and your nails raked through his soft, brown hair, tangling in the sweaty strands at the base of his skull.

“That’s it, baby, that’s my girl,” he rumbled, nipping playfully at your ear and grunting when your pussy gave an answering squeeze. “Just feel me fucking that sweet cunt of yours, feel me filling up that perfect hole with my cock—feels good, yeah?”

“Yeah, feels s’good,” you answered without thinking, the truth tripping out before you could even think to stop it. You let out a soft, sweet exhale, sinking deeper into the blissed out, mindless space you’d found. 

“Good girl,” Bucky murmured, his hips surging between your thighs as his pace picked up. “You’re such a good girl for me, baby.”

You could hear the wet slapping sound of his body meeting yours, and it turned you on just as much as his praise. Your pussy was dripping with even more desire, coating him down to his balls, which were slapping against your ass. 

It was so good, but you still needed more.

“Bucky, please,” you whined, you voice growing louder, more high-pitched as you surrendered to the pleasure. Your fingertips dug into the solid planes of his shoulders, clinging onto the super-soldier as he fucked you. “More, please, Buck.”

Your body writhed beneath Bucky’s bigger form, your thighs squeezing his sides and your hips rising up off the damp sheets to meet his thrusts. Your soft tits pressed to his hard chest, nipples rubbing against the dark hair dusting his skin, teasing them to tight, needy peaks.

All the while, mindless moans and desperate whimpers tumbled from your lips, barely catching in your throat as they darted past your tongue. 

“Atta girl, let me hear you,” Bucky rumbled, one of his hands slipping between your bodies. His thumb found your slippery clit and strummed it sweetly, stroking your puffy pearl until your sounds hitched higher, turning even more pathetic. “You sound so pretty, baby, making such pretty sounds for me.”

Bucky thrust deep inside you, petting your clit until you were crying out, your body clenching tight around his larger form. Your thighs squeezed his ribs, your nails raking against his scalp as your fingers pulled lightly on his hair, and your pussy pulsed around his thick cock. 

From your lips, keening, whiny sounds, and gasps of ‘uh, uh, uh,’ poured freely, the pleasure of Bucky fucking you too much to think clearly or dwell on the reasons why you shouldn’t be making noise. You’d finally let go and gotten lost in your super-soldier, obscene sounds spilling from you unbidden—and Bucky seemed wholly pleased by it.

“Such a good girl, sound so pretty, baby,” he purred against your skin, pressing a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek. “I love the sounds you make for me when my cock is buried in your tight cunt, sweet girl—ya sound so fucking good, pretty girl.”

When you only moaned at his praise, he chuckled, his soft laughter so deeply self-satisfied, you felt your pussy gush with even more wetness. His cock slid in and out of your tight hole with ease, rocking into you hard and fast and making you clench with every thrust. 

“Ya gonna come on my cock, baby?” he asked, a teasing lilt in the warmth of his voice. “Ya gonna make a mess all over my cock while you scream your release and suck me so deep in your cunt, my seed’s gonna flood your womb, huh?”

“Bucky!” 

You sobbed his name, the word devolving into a lewd moan when he hit that spot deep inside you with a firm thrust. You were right on the precipice, about to tumble over the edge into oblivion, and it was all you could do to cling to the super-soldier and let your sounds of pleasure fall freely from your lips. 

“That’s right—that’s fucking right, baby,” Bucky growled, brushing a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Scream my name, let everyone in this tower hear who’s making you feel so good—let ‘em hear who’s making you come, sweet girl.”

Bucky’s thrusts turned wild, his hips rutting between your thighs without the measured, deliberate pace from earlier. His strokes were rough and fast, plowing into your drenched pussy so that the wet, slapping sounds of your joining bodies filled the room.

His hand, still trapped between your bodies, rubbed your clit harder, stroking and pinching the aching bud while your body writhed beneath him. You couldn’t hold back even if you’d wanted to, a litany of discordant sounds spilling from your mouth.

The sharp cries and desperate whimpers and obscene moans from you were mingling with the raspy grunts and husky groans coming from Bucky, along with pornographic noises of the super-soldier fucking you deep into his mattress—and it was wondrous.

It was a beautiful cacophony of pleasure, and you were a part of it, making sounds you never would’ve dreamed of making with anyone other than Bucky. He was the only one who brought it out of you, who made you feel safe and wanted, and who made you feel so much pleasure you were nearly drowning in it.

All at once, your body pulled taut, muscles straining and lips parting even wider. Your lungs expanded in your chest, pushing your tits harder against Bucky’s firm pecs, as you sucked in a deep breath. Then, the tension in your body snapped, and pleasure flooded in. 

And as it did, you screamed his name.

“BUCKY!”

Your super-soldier pressed his grin into your jaw, and then you were carried away in the storm of your release. You were tumbling, free-falling through endless, exhilarating euphoria, your body clinging on to Bucky and your pussy clenching down hard on his cock, begging for his release.

Bucky fucked you through it, and he found his peak a moment later. He grunted his pleasure into your cheek, his hips pressing deep between your thighs. You felt his cock twitch as he spilled his seed in your pussy, filling you up with rope after rope of come.

His big body shuddered and trembled above you, and you dug your fingers into his shoulder blades, holding him closer against your own quivering form. Together, you rode out your releases, catching your breath as your chests heaved and damp sweat cooled on your heated skin.

When you’d both somewhat recovered, Bucky lifted his head from where he’d buried it in the crook of your neck. His handsome face hovered above yours, his blue eyes sparkling with humor and affection in the dim light of his bedroom.

“Knew ya could do it, baby, knew ya could be loud for me,” he murmured, so much warmth in his voice, it made your heart flip in your chest. 

Pride bloomed between your ribs and your lips curved into a delightfully pleased grin, Bucky’s own mouth mirroring the expression as he stared down at you. His fingers brushed down the side of your cheek reverently, his eyes watching their path, before he cupped your jaw in his big hand and tipped your face up.

Then he was ducking down and capturing your lips in a filthy, sweet kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth when you opened for him on a sigh. His tongue stroked against yours, eliciting a weak whine from your throat, and the edges of his mouth curled with a smirk. 

He kissed you harder, deeper, like he could taste the sounds of pleasure straight from your mouth and he was intent on wringing even more from you. A soft moan slipped from your lips, and his smile deepened as he licked it from your tongue.

“That’s it, baby, let me hear you,” Bucky murmured against your lips, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. His cock remained buried deep inside you, your tight heat keeping him warm as he recovered and began to harden again. “Let me hear all your pretty sounds.”

If you weren’t careful, Bucky Barnes would have you screaming so loud, the entire tower really would hear you before the night was over. At that moment, though, you didn’t care. All you cared about was your super-soldier and letting him hear how good he made you feel.

And if that meant you had to be loud, then so be it.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

[solinadarvenel-library]

hello doll face, hear me out:

enemies to lovers w bully!bucky? 👀 since the moment you joined the team, he’s treated you like absolute shit, always looking down, mumbling things under his breath, refusing to train or partner on missions, criticizing your looks, flirting with other girls, etc. rn he’s bucket, sergeant asshole.

but it’s actually bc he’s rlly shitty w feelings and he’s absolutely in love and smitten and he secretly jacks off to the thought of you at night. “I fucking hate you” during the day and “I want her to carry my kids” at night. and it takes either you breaking down and sobbing and not wanting anything to do with him OR finally meeting another guy that treats you right to pull his head out of his ass and change.

ends with fluff? smut? fluff and smut? reader getting her guts rearranged and legs broken by super soldier dick?

18+

Yes mam to all of this. ALL OF THIS. I feel like the fact that I like this so much says a lot about me. 

All the angst and asshole Bucky, SMUTT lots of it (m masturbation, desperate sex, very desperate. Bucky’s pink pouty mouth is a warning) and fluff to make up for him being an absolute dick.  

-

2 years ago 

“Everyone, this is y/n, she’s going to be joining us from now on” Tony proudly paraded you around the compound, introducing you to the team. Everyone had been beyond welcoming, wishing you luck and finding ways to make you comfortable. The last person you had yet to meet was Bucky. 

You quietly padded down the kitchen, still not entirely comfortable to feel like you were at home but you were trying. You made yourself some tea, looking up when you heard the sound of heavy boots thudding down the hall. 

“Oh there you are!” Tony walked in with Bucky, the tall brunette staring down at you with no expression his face. “Bucky this is y/n, she’s our newest Avenger” He stated proudly while you smiled, walking over to them. 

“Hi, I’m-

“Y/n, I heard”  Bucky cocked an eyebrow at Tony, looking you up and down, clearly unimpressed. “You hire just anyone now? Did you find her from the cast of Barney and Friends?” 

“She’s an assassin, I wouldn’t talk shit if I were you” Tony sassed, rolling his eyes as he walked away to answer a phone call. That was the start of your shitty relationship with Bucky Barnes. You didn’t even know what you did wrong. Every time you tried to be civil with him, he brushed you off, mumbling something under his breath. 

He didn’t hold back on criticism. 

He never wanted to train with you even though you had similar backgrounds and fighting styles.

He always had something to say about the way you dressed or the way your hair looked. 

He was clearly a fuck boy, flirting and sweet talking nearly every other agent but you. It’s not like you needed him to flirt but at least some basic respect...

Present

Tony groaned at the latest assignment that was handed to him, he knew it was a tedious one and no one would be ecstatic to volunteer and take it on. The team sat around the conference room staring at the stack of papers, avoiding eye contact with Tony so they wouldn't get picked. It was just a surveillance mission, which meant it would be boring and you knew the location was somewhere cold but it’s not like you had other plans. 

“Um, I could go” You offered while Tony gratefully handed you the large file, his eyes scanning the room to pick a partner to go with you. 

“Barnes, you’re on the mission too” 

“For fucks sake” Bucky mumbled under his breath, his jaw clenching when he looked over at you. 

“There a problem, tin man?”

“Do I have to go with her? You couldn’t just stick me back in cyro” He grumbled, ripping the file from your hands and skimming through it. “Let me just go alone”

“No, you need a second pair of eyes, suck it up and go pack” Tony waved him off, dismissing everyone else while Bucky continued to huff and mumble. You groaned internally, mentally preparing yourself for what would be the most grueling mission of your life. It had been 2 years. 2 fucking years and some how nothing between you and the super solider had changed. If anything, he was even worse now. 

Constant snide comments.

The both of you always arguing. 

He made sure you knew he wasn’t attracted to you AT ALL. 

He never wanted to work with you, let alone be near you. 

He was a fucking asshole. 

A few days after the shitty mission

“Hey gorgeous” Bucky smiled at the new agent that was training near you, the both of them flirting, exchanging lingering touches and smirks. You rolled your eyes, internally retching at the way he helped her stretch, his large hands splayed across her waist, helping her bend over. You could have sworn he looked over to you before holding her even closer to him, biting his lip. It was on days like this, you wished he was ugly. The fact that he was a dick to you was one thing but it pained you even more that you found him attractive and he looked at you as if you should have been in the cast of American Horror Story. 

You turned your music up, trying to focus on your workout, ignoring the glimmer of gold on his arm each time he stood under the lights while pumping weights.  Something about his new dark grey and gold arm made him even more attractive and you were ready to throw yourself off the tower.

The part that you didn’t know was that when Bucky was in his room, alone with all his thoughts, they were filled with you. Sure he had nightmares sometimes but majority of his moans and cries were out of pleasure and not pain. He had zero idea of how to act around you, from the day he saw you, he felt both his heart and his cock throb at the same time. This sweet girl with a skill set to match his, pure beauty on the inside and dangerous on the inside. He wanted to rail you and then get down on one knee and he hadn’t even spoken to you. 

Fuck was wrong with him. 

It got worse the more he had to work with you. You were kind. Gorgeous. Loving. Forgiving. Fuck he wished you weren’t so forgiving. Every time you were on the field, Bucky made sure he was no where near you. God forbid you were placed around the same area, he was sure he’d pull his pants down in the middle of a fight and stroke his cock watching you move. That or he’d start shopping for for rings. Landing his kicks and punches were not the most comfortable when he had a raging hard-on between his legs while wondering what your ring size was. 

He was in love. 

Fuck. 

Love?

Love.

Something about you was different; it was a lot, too much, he had no idea how to deal with what he was feeling so he turned to pushing you away every single time. 

Until he was alone. 

Each night, all his venomous words would switch up to honey in his fantasies, praising you while he stroked his cock. 

“God-baby-s’good, it’s so fuckin good” 

“C’mon spread your legs for your Sergeant baby, lemme see that pretty pussy”

“Gonna fill that tight little cunt up doll, paint those silky walls with my cum, you like that?” 

“Want you to carry my kids baby, get you pregnant with my cum, get these tits all full and leaking with milk”

“Fuck angel, you’d look so pretty full of me, you’d be such a gorgeous mama, so sexy and swollen and round, God, please have my kids baby, pleaseplease-shit-”

“Take daddy’s fat load you fuckin’ little slut, be my babymama, making me cum so hard, OH FUCKK-”

Masturbating wasn’t new to him, he’d been stroking his cock for years but fuck, after he met you? He wasn’t just lying on his back with his right hand anymore. 

No.

He’d find new ways to touch himself, desperate to make it feel like he had you right there with him. Sometimes he had both hands wrapped around his cock, stroking it up and down while his hips thrusted up, legs spread wide, feet planted on the mattress imagining it was you on top of him. 

He’d roll over and rub himself, humping the mattress, wishing he could have you under him. His hips would roll, grinding his leaking cock against the bed, all his clothes thrown off, his body hot just from thinking about you. He would grip onto the sheets until they almost tore, covering his sheets in a hot sticky mess. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough. 

One night, he grabbed his pillow, shoving it between his legs, humping and like a dog in heat, his cock aching for your pussy to take away the desperation between his legs. His balls always felt so heavy, panting as he rocked his hips, squeezing his thighs together, pushing the pillow tight against himself, grinding on it till he came, your name dripping from his lips. 

He almost cried from pleasure, some how working his way up to a second orgasm as he kept rubbing himself, only you could make him cum twice in a row, the whole room smelling of sex as he panted, spurts of cum still dribbling from his sensitive head. 

You were something else, you had no idea what you did to him. 

Tony’s party 

Between the 2 weeks of bullshit you had to deal with from Bucky and the mission and all the other stresses of work, you figured your deserved at least once nice night. You rummaged through your closet, deeming none of your dresses good enough for a Stark party. You weren’t exactly sure what the occasion was but you knew you needed a dress. Some nice heels. Add a little extra to your makeup maybe. You spent the day shopping and the rest of the evening getting ready, doing a quick once over in the mirror before heading down. 

You headed towards the bar, your stomach dropping the second his eyes landed on you, his jaw clenching, the grip on his glass tightening. You decided to ignore him, brushing past him to flag the bartender down. You could feel his glare on you, mentally scolding yourself for not just downing half a bottle in your room before the party. 

“You really didn’t have anything else to wear?” Bucky scoffed, eyeing you up and down, his cock already starting to fucking leak the second his eyes landed on you. You were beautiful, there was no doubt there but tonight was something else and he was sure Tony would have to put him back in a cell. 

That fucking dress had to be new because he definitely didn’t see it before, he would have damn well remembered if he did. Your skin glowed, a soft gold shimmer dancing off your exposed collarbones under the low light of the bar. Your cleavage looked so inviting for him to bury his face in, kiss up your neck while he stuffed his hands up your-

God Damn. 

And the heels. The ones he’d want thrown over his shoulders while he railed-

Fuck.

And the makeup. Pretty dark eyes and those pretty glossy lips; he couldn’t scrub the image of your mascara running down your cheeks, your lip gloss smudged while you choked on his cock, gagging with it all the way down your-

“Excuse me?” You glared up at him, sipping on your drink, letting the ice cold liquid burn down your throat. Bucky smirked, shaking his head, his hands clenched, trying to keep himself from grabbing you. 

“You could’ve picked anything to wear and you decided on that? I know you’re not the smartest avenger but I thought maybe you’d at least know how to dress. You look like something out of a bad 90′s romcom”

You felt your stomach drip further, swallowing the lump that started to form in your throat. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that you’d hoped he’d think you looked good tonight. Maybe for once, he would at keep his mouth shut. Apparently not. 

“Well, it’s not like I dressed up for you anyway Barnes” You hissed, making your way over to the empty hall, hoping to blink away the tears that were threatening to fill your eyes. You gritted your teeth when you heard him follow behind you, his blue eyes boring into you. 

“God I hope not, that would have been a waste of everybody’s time” Bucky snorted, not noticing the way you bit your lip to keep it from trembling. “Turn the lights on when you do your makeup, then at least maybe Walker would hit that” 

You tried to hold it together until his last comment. Bucky shook his head, deciding he had to pull himself away from you, no matter how perfect you looked, no matter how good you smelled, no matter how much he wanted you to be his, no matter how much he wanted to grab you and tell you how much he loved you, he couldn’t do it. His mind was too scrambled to deal with everything he felt for you. He started to walk away back to the party, hoping he could flirt his pain away. “Whatever, where’s Anna-”

You let out a sob, slapping your hand over your mouth to shut yourself up. He stopped dead in his tracks, his heart hammering against his chest as he turned around. Then he noticed the tears streaking down your face. 

Shit. 

“What the fuck is your problem” You choked out, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I don’t get it, what did I do to you?!” 

Bucky felt his heart start to crumble, reaching out to keep you from running away, now he definitely went too far. 

You’d never gotten mad at him before, not like this. 

“No-no don’t fucking touch me” You spat, smacking his hand away, angry tears rolling down your face. “I don’t want your shitty fucking hands anywhere near me” 

“Doll-

“God-don’t-of all fucking things don’t you dare call me that shit” You backed yourself away from him, ending up against the wall of the corridor. Bucky moved closer to you, enough so you wouldn’t be able to run from him, he couldn’t fuck this up any longer. 

“Y/n, please-

“Oh, so you know my name now? You actually knew all this time, you knew it wasn’t dumb ass, or fat ass or stupid or what was that other shit you called me? Incompetent, weak, waste of a teammate!?”

Bucky could feel his insides burn, in his absolute stupid way of hoping to hide his feelings, he ended up making a mess of yours instead. He thought he knew pain before, like whenever you got injured on a mission or whenever he had seen you sick. 

He’d silently check to see if you were okay, walking through the medbay in the middle of the night and keeping the kitchen stocked with your favorite snacks. He thought of all the times he wanted to grab you and cuddle you when you were curled in a ball with cramps, rub his hand over whenever it hurt, make you feel better.   

Those moments were painful but nothing was worse than the way you were crying now, each of your sobs killing a piece of him. 

“You’ve been a fucking asshole from the day I met you and I didn’t do a thing to you so why the fuck do you treat me like shit for no reason?! Just-just go fuck yourself” 

You tried to push you way past him but he grabbed your wrist pulling you back. 

“Baby, baby, wait, listen to me-”

“I told you don’t-don’t fucking call me that” You yanked your hand away from him, both your hands landing on his chest to shove him away but he stayed rooted in place. He grabbed your hands in his, holding them close to where his heart was hammering, squeezing them gently as he leaned over to cage you against the wall “LET GO” 

Bucky shook his head, his mind scrambling to put together what he wanted to say to you, to be honest with you for once over pushing you away again. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just listen okay? I know I don’t deserve it at all, but please? Please, y/n, I know I don’t deserve it but just let me say what I have to say and I promise I’ll let you go” 

You stared at your heels, refusing to meet his eyes. You heard him take a deep breath, for the first time you could near nervousness in his voice, shaky as he spoke. 

“When-when I first saw you, you were the prettiest thing I’d seen in a long time-” 

“That’s how you treat someone you think is pretty?” You scoffed, while he  continued. 

“I know. It was wrong of me. Fuck, everything I did was wrong. I-I don’t know how to control how I feel around you. I thought if you disliked me, it’d make it easier for me to distance myself from you too. Maybe like you less. I thought if you hated me, I wouldn’t see you the same way anymore” Bucky stopped for a moment, emotion swirling in his eyes, trying to find the right words. 

“But it never worked. Fuck, it didn’t work once. You always forgave the way I treated you and you’d look beautiful as hell doing it. I’d flirt with anything that walked by, but I’ve only every had eyes for you. I tried to fight it, never knew what to do with myself over how I felt about you”

You shook your head, a part of your heart wanting to believe him, the other part screaming for you to walk away. The grip he had on your hands had loosened; you could have pushed him off if you wanted to. 

You could have. 

But you didn’t. 

“Baby I can’t-I don’t even have the words, I’m not good with my feelings and I know that’s not an excuse for the way I’ve been treating you but you have to know-all that shit I said, the way I’ve been acting, it’s because I’m a fucking idiot. I had this beautiful angelic assassin with the sweetest heart placed right in front of me and I pushed her away instead of hugging her the way I wanted to the day I saw her”

You bit your lip, your breath hitching when you felt him cup your face, his warm breath fanning on your face. 

“You really are a fucking idiot” You mumbled, letting him rest his forehead on yours. You leaned into his touch as he softly wiped your tears with his thumb, chasing the warmth of his hand. 

“I’m so so sorry angel. I shouldn’t have let it get this far” His hands moved down to your waist, pulling you close to him, his lips brushing against your cheek. “I should’ve treated you like the precious doll you are” 

“And how’s that” You whispered, digging your nails into your palms, itching to wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

“Like this” He kissed your cheek softly, trailing feather light kisses down to your jaw, continuing down your neck. “And like this” He moved his hand to gently card through your hair, grazing your scalp as he lightly nipped your shoulder. “maybe even like this...” 

You gasped, as he ran his fingers down your back, over your ass, gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist. Your hands flew to grasp onto his shoulders, your wide eyes locked with his love and lust filled ones, you could feel his cock through his jeans pressed right against your panties. . 

“M’gonna show you exactly how I should have treated you doll” He whispered by your ear, making his way down to hall to the elevators to take you right to his room. As soon as he opened the door, he kicked it closed, pressing you against the wall, his lips crashing onto yours. You moaned against his mouth, squeezing your thighs at the feeling of his erection pressing against you. 

“My pretty angel” He carried you over to his bed, softly laying you against his pillows, stroking your forehead. “Do you have any idea how desperately in love I am with you?” He said sincerely, his hand slipping down between your legs, caressing the soft flesh of your inner thighs. 

“Show me” You whispered, your breath hitching when he sat back on his heels, stripping his shirt off and throwing it aside. He grabbed you to sit up, pulling your dress off, groaning at how your lacy bra cupped your breasts, your panties clearly damp. 

“I want you bare on my bed baby, want all of you” His hand slipped behind your back, tossing your bra off before gently pushing you down so he could slide your panties off “Perfect” 

You could feel your face heat up at the way his eyes raked up and down your body. You instinctively went to cover yourself, feeling self conscious under his gaze. Bucky’s metal hand held your wrists against the mattress, while the other worked at unbuttoning his pants, pulling it down enough to let his cock spring free. 

“Don’t. Don’t cover yourself, you’re beautiful, you know that baby?” He gave his cock a few tugs, pearls of precum already beading at the tip. “Such a pretty body, wouldn’t even want you in clothes when you’re with me, you’re fuckin’ beautiful just like this sweets” 

He let go of your hand to throw his pants off, crawling back on top of you. His cock was heavy against your thigh while he ran this fingers through your soaked cunt, brushing over your clit. You could feel your pussy clenching and fluttering, too desperate, wanting him inside you and nothing else. 

“Bucky don’t tease, want it” 

“I have to prep you baby-”

“No-just-need this now, please” Your eyes were pleading with him, desperate to feel all of him your emotions all over the place. 

“Are you sure?” He gently parted your legs, slotting himself between them, his hard cock nudging against your throbbing clit. You nodded, lifting your thighs up for him, gasping when you felt the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. He braced himself before slowly sliding his cock in, filling you inch by inch until you could feel him in your belly, the veins in his length throbbing. “Fuck you’re tight baby” Bucky groaned, precum starting to leak again.

“Jamess” Your head was thrown back, panting at how full you felt, your pussy sucking him in deeper as he stilled, letting you get used to the stretch. “Move Bucky, pleasee”

You squeezed around him as he started to move slowly, letting you feel all of him while he pressed his lips against yours. You parted your lips, letting his tongue trace the inside of your mouth, the both of you lost in how connected you were, the roll of his hips making you dizzy. He pulled away for air, blue eyes blown with lust locked with yours. 

“God, you’re so perfect” He felt the same thing again just like the first day he saw you, his heart and cock throbbing at the same time. 

“I’m not-” 

Before you could protest, Bucky shook his head, determined to let you know exactly what you did to him. 

“Do you-do you have any idea how I touch myself because of you?” 

You looked at him with wide eyes, warmth coving your skin as he smirked, speeding up his thrusts. 

“You don’t, huh? You have no idea how often I touch and play with myself because of you. Cumming so hard every night over this pretty angel I can’t have, that I can only dream of. The way you got me so fucked up, I don’t even know what to do with myself” He stopped his movements, sitting back on his heels, grabbing your hips and nearly folding you in half. You cried out as he started to pound you, your belly bulging each time he fucked into you. 

“The fuckin’ hold you have over me? The way you got me God damn humping the bed like a desperate little teenager, that’s how bad it is baby, look, look at what the fuck you do to me” Bucky growled, angling his hips deeper, holding the back of your head to look down at where you were both connected. “You feel how hard my dick is baby? Look at how perfectly I fit in you sweets, s’all for you” 

“FUCK-Oh fuck Bucky!!” Tears streamed down your face as you felt the band in your belly tighten, pressure building higher and higher that you had never felt before. You slapped your hand over your mouth, trying to quieten your screams, only to have Bucky grab it off your mouth.  

“Ah ah, don’t. Don’t you fucking dare, let me hear you” Bucky yanked your hand away, pulling it up above your head and keeping it pinned down “You think you’re moans are loud? fuck baby you should hear how loud I get for you after watching you on the field. Y’know that’d why I cant’ train with you. would fuck you on those mats in a heart beat. You should hear how loud I get when I think about getting you pregnant with my babies”

He wanted you to-

Oh. 

OH. 

“You-you want me to have your babies?” You whimpered, your arms reaching up to pull him down to you. Bucky moaned, letting his body weight fall on you, his pace growing sloppy at the thought of actually getting to knock you up.  “All the fucking time doll, always thinking about fucking you raw, just like this, getting you nice and pregnant” He brought his knee up to fuck you as deep as he could, the muscles in his back all pulled taut. “Y/n, I wanna get you pregnant” 

“Buckyy” Your pussy clenched and dripped around him, his words making it impossible to hold your orgasm off. “Give it to me”

“Fuck, you can’t say shit like that” He panted, his grunts getting deeper as he felt his balls starting to pull towards his body, “You can’t talk like that baby, God don’t say shit like that” 

Bucky couldn’t tell what he wanted more, he couldn’t actually cum in you. 

He couldn’t. 

“Baby, I have to pull out” He knew he had to but your body didn’t want to let go, gripping around his cock. “It feels too good doll, s’not fair baby” Bucky moaned, sloppily grinding you into the mattress, hiding his face into the crook of your neck. His hands were in fists, clawing at the sheets, gripping them while his mind swirled. 

“You have to pull out” You whined, nodding but your pussy pulled him right back in. 

“Gotta pull out, Y/n, can’t fucking-shit-why the hell do you feel so fuckin’ good, m’gonna cum”

“Cum Bucky” You moved your hand to stroke his cheek while he bit down onto your neck, hoping to ground himself. He nearly saw stars when he felt your ankles lock around his waist. 

“Babygirl, you gotta let me pull out” He was sure he was going to start crying, his cock desperate to just blow. 

“Do you want to?” You 

“No” Bucky whined, his cheeks flushed, cock throbbing, “Fuck no, I wanna cum in you so fuckin’ bad, m’already leaking so much, you have no idea, cocks dripping in you”

“Fuck-Please-Bucky-” You couldn’t even formulate words anymore, your orgasm crawling down your spine, warmth filling your body, squirting all over his cock. Bucky started to jack hammer you, unable to hold back anymore, he couldn’t cum in you, there was no way-

“I-have to-have to pull-m’gonna-oh god FUCK I’mgonna-BABY I’m CUMMING FUCKKK, I’m-I’m cumming in you baby, m’sorry, fuck I can’t, I never want to pull out” His pace didn’t falter, continuing to fuck into you through his orgasm. 

“Fuck yesss, oh shit, shitttt-” His eyes rolled back, this was better than any fantasy he had ever had, “It feels good, I don’t give a shit, it feels to fuckin’ good, that’s right baby, milk my cock, keep my babies in that pretty pussy” You clawed at his back, keeping your legs locked around his waist as he started to speed up again, his cock still rock hard. “Y/n-I’m gonna cum again-let me-please fuck, I’m cumming in your pussy again” He roared against your neck, stilled as he filled you once more. 

He whined at the way his cock felt sensitive, cuddling into you while you let your hand comb through his hair, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple. He hissed, pulling out of you and shifting you to lay on his chest. You both panted, too fucked out to speak, falling into a comfortable silence while Bucky moved the sheets to cover you with him. 

“Y/n” He whispered against your hair, tilting your chin up to loo at him. “I’m really am sorry baby. For how I acted. For how I treated you all this time. I truly want you to be mine. And I mean all of it” He held your gaze, not letting you look away. “A family with you, growing old together, making so many memories” 

“I want to believe you” You whispered, biting your lip, wondering if he actually meant everything he said. You’d gone from enemies to wanting to have babies together in the span of an hour. 

“I know” He smiled softly, wrapping his arms around you “I’m going to do everything I can to show you baby, I’m more in love with you than anything else”

“Bucky what if- um, what if after tonight I’m actually-” You felt a little anxious, his warm cum still dripping between your thighs. He chuckled, rolling you over so your back was against his chest, his arm wrapping around your waist, softly stroking your belly. 

“Then in 9 months, we have a little you or me running around, preferable a little angel like you” He smiled, coming down to kiss your nose. 

“Are you sure?” You let yourself melt into his hold, closing your eyes while he snuggled with you, never wanting to let you go again. 

“M’sure. I want it all sweetheart. All with you”

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[solinadarvenel-library]

Dry humping chubby Bucky

Just imagine dry humping with subby chubby beefy Bucky. Using him for your pleasure, moaning and whining while you hump and grind yourself all over him. He’s a shy baby who can’t believe someone who looks like you would be so into someone like him. No amount of convincing works, which is how you both ended up on the couch with you straddled on his lap, rubbing yourself on his achingly hard length. 

You worship him, whispering the sweetest words while taking your clothes off one by one, leaving you in just the tiniest pair of lace panties, rubbing your clit right where the tip of his cock rests in his pants. 

“You’re so pretty like this, big boy” Your hands grip onto his thick shoulders, your fingers toying with the hair at the nap of his neck, tugging it every so slightly. His face is flushed, pink lips parted, gasping every time you move just right, his balls heavy, “My pretty baby boy” 

“Oh God” He whimpers, feeling spurts of precum drip from the tip, his entire body throbbing from how good it feels. At some point you lean back, grasping onto his thighs, putting your body in display for him while you continue to swivel your hips on his erection and he swears he’s died and gone to heaven. 

Czytaj dalej

[solinadarvenel-library]

Let It Be Done Unto Me

pairing: husband!matt murdock x f!reader (wc: 7.5k | ao3 mirror)

18+! cw: breeding kink (mentions of impregnation & pregnancy – both matt and reader want kids here), dom!matt, rough sex, oral!f receiving, doggy, mating press, light bondage, choking, biting, use of “good girl” “my wife” during sex, slight dacryphilia, possessive behavior, classic daredevil guilt, allusions to religious devotion, fluff

summary: some dreams have always felt beyond reach for matt, including having a family of his own. but post-party, three drinks in—turns out all he had to do was ask.

note: foggy and marci are married and have a kid here! also matt holds a baby in this one, so obv it’s totally self-indulgent : )

A/N: HAPPY FATHER'S DAY to the dilfest lawyer on earth!!! i started this completely intending for it to be just filth but my nine year delusionship with this man means everything i write about him WILL grow feelings

The bustling warmth of Foggy’s apartment hits you the moment you step in the door. Every inch of the space is alive with the sound of chatting adults and shrieking children, not to mention the same incongruously happy verse of “We Did It!”—the Bluetooth speaker cutting out the Dora playlist over and over. Bright balloons cling to the backs of chairs, paper plates and half-eaten cupcakes cluttering every surface. To put it simply, it’s utter domestic chaos.

So obviously, it’s hard not to smile.

“Wow,” Matt says beside you, his lips twitching upward faintly as his head tilts to take in the scene. “This place is alive.”

“Alive,” you snort, swatting him gently on the arm as you guide him through the threshold. “It’s a full-on circus. Foggy must be in hell.”

“Can confirm,” Foggy interjects. He’s appeared behind you as if summoned by the mere mention of his name. There’s a smear of frosting on his button-down, and there’s a crazy light in his eyes you haven’t seen since college. “Thank God, cavalry’s here. I was this close to drinking Scotch out a sippy cup.”

You laugh, leaning in to hug him as Matt claps him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday to the big guy!” you grin as Foggy pulls back. “Officially one! How’s it feel?”

“Haven’t heard, huh? We’re auctioning him off later,” Foggy deadpans, though the affection peeks through. “Which reminds me—mind if I pawn off your husband for a bit?” He turns to Matt, gesturing toward the kitchen where a battalion of Nelson women’s engaged mid-conversation, holding plastic cups and talking animatedly. “Dude, do me a solid and work your lawyerly magic on the aunties, please. They’ve been talking about SNTs all afternoon and frankly, I cannot feign interest anymore.” 

“Oh, Fog, I don’t know if I’m the guy for that—” Matt starts, but Foggy’s already steering him toward the fray. “You’re exactly the guy, go make them cry with one of your blind crusader stories. Right this way, ladies,” Foggy urges, as Matt’s protests are drowned out, swallowed by the chattering mass of Nelson aunts. 

You stay back, still laughing, and duck toward the table of snacks. From the few remaining drinks, you grab a can of Yoo-Hoo and your finger along its sweaty condensation—until the sharp wail of the baby cuts through the din. 

You turn. 

Across the room, the birthday boy’s squirming in his frazzled aunt’s arms, flushed and clearly seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. Without thinking, you slip over to them (Yoo-Hoo forgotten), holding out your hands with a soft, “Here, let me.”

Teddy comes to you easily, his weight settling against your hip as he lets out one last cursory wail before quieting. His chubby fists tangle in the fabric of your dress, his head falling against your chest as his breathing hitches. You rock him gently, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath until his cries subside entirely. It doesn’t take long before he’s calm, little body relaxing against yours as he smacks his lips softly, his stubby fingers patting at your collarbone. 

Across the room, the Nelson women chatter on around Matt.

“You poor dear,” one of them coos, clutching his elbow, “how’s work? Foggy says the firm’s doing very well. You boys must be rolling in clients.”

“It’s steady,” Matt says mildly, “we’ve been lucky.”

“And her?” someone else asks. “That sweet girl of yours still hasn’t run away screaming?”

A small smile curves his mouth. “Still here, thankfully.” A chuckle goes around the circle. 

“Oh honey,” Foggy’s mom cuts in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, when do you think you’ll have one of your own?”

Matt raises his eyebrows, amused and a little cornered.

One of the great-aunts is squinting across the room. “Hmph, looks like she’s halfway there already.”

He tilts his head slightly, tuning in—adjusting the direction of his senses—then stops. His heart stutters. The space between you—the constant hum of your heartbeat, the soft lilt of your voice as you soothe the baby—it’s all amplified in his head, pulling his attention like a magnet. 

“Must be nice,” another jokes. “You can always tell who’s gonna be a good mom. Poor Foggy looked like he was going to pass out.”

Matt smiles faintly, his usual charm just barely masking how his throat has tightened. “Ah, she’s good with kids. Always has been,” he says, deliberately keeping his tone light.

The mention of children is a trap he’s navigated before, typically with casual deflections that fall back on vague hopes of someday. But this time, the words are harder to shake off, and when one of the aunties has so pointed it out—the way you’re holding Foggy’s baby, calm and radiant and perfectly at ease—it feels less hypothetical and more, well, inevitable.

“Well, you’re doing well for yourselves now,” one of the women says, her tone pointed but kind. “Don’t wait too long. You’ve got a good thing going—and if you ask me, you could use one of those little ones running around.” 

“We’ve got some time,” Matt laughs offhandedly. “Haven’t really sat down and talked it through in depth. Maybe soon.”

Mercifully, the conversation shifts, but Matt’s distracted now. Every word buzzes in the background as he hones in on the sound of you: the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your voice swaying upward as you coo at Teddy, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift your weight to keep him secure on your hip.

Before he knows what’s happening, you’ve made your way across the room to him, oblivious to the swirl of tension beneath his skin as you’re saying something lighthearted about how “it’s about time Uncle Matty took a turn.” He doesn’t even have time to protest before the toddler’s being nestled against him, pudgy fingers pawing at his tie.

“Careful,” he says, a little alarmed. “I could drop him.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Couns,” you say breezily, smoothing a hand over Matt’s arm. “You’ve done this before. Plus he’s pretty sturdy, you know. Babies are tougher than they look.”

Matt falls silent, holding the baby cautiously, keeping completely still so that not even his breathing will disturb the delicate balance of the moment. Teddy squirms briefly before miraculously—horrifyingly—settling into his chest, and Matt’s heartbeat jumps, but the baby’s doesn’t. There’s just the faintness against his sternum, the rise and fall of milky breath; he can feel the pulse in his tiny wrist. The echo of a hiccup in his ribs. He finds himself cataloguing every flicker of life beneath the fragile skin. 

It’s overwhelming.

“Matt,” you say softly, “you okay?”

He nods, handing Teddy back to you a little too quickly. “Yeah. It’s just—he’s warm.”

“He didn’t pee on you, did he?”

“No—no,” Matt chuckles faintly. “Not that kind of warm.”

You lift a brow at him, but say nothing more. The baby yawns, then burrows into you again. Matt can hear everything. The low, involuntary sound you make when the baby nestles just right under your chin. The shift in your skin temperature: your whole body warmer than usual. And that scent—he’d missed it before, but God here it is, subtle but unmistakable under the usual fare of your perfume. Sweet earth, clean sweat, and something deeper, headier. His heightened senses tell him what his mind has tried to ignore; it makes his chest tighten and imagination run rampant. He tries to shake away the thought, wresting his focus from the way you smell so right, so perfect, but it’s hurtling like a tidal wave.

By the time you’re on the train ride home, the realization has planted itself in the hollow of his chest, refusing to be moved. You sit beside him, scrolling idly through your phone, humming some barely-there melody under your breath.

He’s silent the whole time, thoughts turning over in endless waves.

It’s already dark outside when you arrive at the apartment. Matt’s still unusually quiet, his mind somewhere else entirely. You shrug off your coat by the door and toss it onto the hook with a bit of flair. Trying to fill the silence, you busy yourself with telling him about the Nelson family dog—a story you picked up about the ratty little mop of a thing getting passed around from household to household like a fuzzy hot potato.

“It’s probably because it’s so ugly,” you grumble lightly, shooting him a grin as you kick your shoes off toward the mat. “Swear, if you could just see it, it really is so ugly it’s insane.”

Matt is usually one to tease, grinning back in that sly, devil-may-care way, but tonight he doesn’t even give you a huff of amusement. Your brows draw together in concern: could someone have said something earlier? He wasn’t one to let offhanded comments get to him, but there had been exceptions… Or maybe the party was too much? Its noise and chaos and endless stimulation, well— you could see this silence as an aftermath.

“Matt?” you finally ask, your tone gentle as you cross the small space to him. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing near the door, barely out of his coat. “Are you okay? You’ve been so quiet since we left. Did something happen at the party?”

The longer he stays silent, the more determined you become to shake an answer out of him. Whatever storm is brewing in his mind, you’ll be damned if he keeps it locked away, as he tends to do. It triggers your instinct to soothe. Or at the very least, poke fun at it to take the edge off. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging here. Whose ass do I have to beat? Was it Uncle Tommy? Was it something I–”

“Sweetheart,” Matt cuts through your ridiculous coaxing. Though his tone is steady with concerted effort, there’s a flush creeping up the column of his neck, coloring the edge of his ears.

You step back half a pace, blinking. “What?”

“It’s nothing. Please.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing. Matt, tell me what’s going on with you.” In truth, you greatly dislike all this unceremonious pushing and goading, but the last time he’d gone quiet like this it turned out he’d been hiding a broken rib and a tender side from late night patrol. You frown, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m not. Honestly.” The shift is almost imperceptible, but you notice the way his body tenses further, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, “Forget it.”

“Forget it?!” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. That at least earns you the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips, but he smothers it so fast you wonder if it was a figment of your imagination. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” You wag a halfhearted finger at him. “You absolutely do not get to brood like that then ‘forget it’ me! You’re going to tell me, Matthew”—the way you enunciate his name is pointed—“because you at least owe it to me to tell me if you’re hurt, or I swear to God I’m—”

“Fine,” he snaps, putting an end to your mock dramatics. The tension in him pulls tight enough that the words tumble out unguarded. “Let’s have a baby.”

You blink.

The air around you seems to still, as if the apartment itself is holding its breath, having followed his bidding for silence.  “What?”

“I want a baby with you,” he confesses slowly, sounding pained. It sounds almost like loathing, the derision with which he views how badly he means it. 

You laugh before you can stop it, strangled and half-scandalized. “Matt, Jesus! What the hell…”

But your startled amusement is already tapering off as it clicks into place. Oh. His quietness, his strange mood during the ride home—it was now making perfect sense. Earlier, you were utterly at ease with Teddy, and maybe he’d been, too. The situation now glaringly obvious, your heart starts to race and Matt’s expression darkens when he picks up on it, his lips twitching with that slow, devilish smile you know all too well.

“Oh,” you begin, blinking up at him as you straighten.

That smile. Christ.

“Yes, oh,” he says, already closing the distance between you. “I mean it.”

His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with deliberate pressure.

“Let’s make one,” he murmurs. “Right now.”

Your heart hammering violently in your chest, you tip your head back slightly to meet the wine-dark mirrors of his glasses. In the reflection, all you can see is yourself. His next step seals the last inch of space between you, and when his mouth finds yours, whatever resistance you had left dissolves like sugar on the tongue.

His kiss is needy, and you feel his every hot exhale fanning your cheeks as a hand slips to your waist—guiding you, pushing you back, back until your spine hits the wall. His other hand curls around your nape gently, cushioning the press of your head against the panel. You gasp into him, grabbing at the tense muscles of his shoulders through his shirt. He’s so close, pressing so close now that you can feel the heated hardness through his slacks. Well, he seems to not mind. If anything, he wants you to feel it, grinding himself against your stomach.

“Somebody’s eager,” you tease playfully, never mind that you’re growing lightheaded from the delicious burn of his stubble scratching your face. “Christ, this is a lot of intensity for a lady who just inhaled too many cupcakes. Mmf, ow!”

His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping at it lightly before letting it free.

“Not now, honey,” he rasps against your mouth. You know it well enough to be a warning, but you don’t know if it’s more terrifying or thrilling. The hand at your waist slips upward, finding the curve of your breast over the flimsy material of your dress. Your face grows embarrassingly hot, and Matt’s breath hitches, groping you a little harder, more possessively, and the thought crosses his mind: the sensation of your tits rounding out for him, growing swollen, heavy with milk… Fuck, the thought makes his cock jerk hard in his pants, and the guttural moan that tears from his chest seems to surprise even him.

Fuck, Matt, get it together.

Shaking his head, he dips down to the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. You smell so damn good—milky and earthy and uniquely you—it’s a shame you’re oblivious to it. What you aren’t oblivious to, though, is the way he’s trembling slightly. From restraint or the desperate undercurrent of his desire, you can’t tell.

“Is this really you?” you ask, breathless now, trying to wriggle just enough to make him loosen his grip. This isn’t like him—not Matt the charming husband, the overzealous lawyer. But you do recognize him. This voice, it belongs to the man who comes home late at night beaten within an inch of his life, collapsing on the floor as you scramble for the medkit. But that part of him has been quieter, gentler lately, less frequent with the overly suicidal excursions—a promise he’d offered you when he asked you to marry him. 

And yet here he is now, returned with that fire reignited, directed solely at you.

“You smell so good I can’t think straight,” Matt murmurs, his nose dragging along your throat, pausing to press a hot, deliberate kiss behind your ear. “You wanna know something?”

You nod, the unbearable heat trickling between your thighs.

“You were holding him,” he begins, voice rasping like he can barely get the words out, “and all I could think about was my baby. Our baby. You’re ovulating right now, and Christ, sweetheart—I can smell it on you.”

That stops your breath cold. You’re reeling, your internal voice screaming for decorum, coolness, anything that might save face—but it’s impossible to, not when hot nerves are zinging traitorously through your body at his words. Not when his hands are on you, hot as brands. Not when he’s put words to the question you’d been hoping he’d bring up again for the past year.

It’s so embarrassing how easily he unravels you. Case in point–

His hand cups your sex through your soaked underwear, pressing the heel of his palm into you hard.

“Matt—!” It’s more of a plea than anything else, but you barely manage to say anything else before his hands slide down your weakened thighs, broad palms curling under them, and he lifts you effortlessly. He hikes you up further against the wall, grinding his hips into you and fuck, you can feel him pulsing—he’s like iron, a fact you’re darkly aware of even through the unconscionably selfish layers of his clothes hiding his hardness from view. The sheer force of his want makes you gasp, hands to his chest as if to push him away—though you clearly have no intention of doing so.

But seemingly, he does.

He pulls back from the kiss, and for the first time all night, you catch a flicker of hesitation cross his face. A crack in the mask of breathless certainty, the very same that had carried you across the room and into his arms just minutes ago.

“Are you sure you want this?” 

You almost laugh. He’s asking you? When he’s the one tearing you out of your clothes, talking filth? “Are you?” 

“I… Well–” The vibrations of his voice tickle your collarbone as Matt rests his head against your shoulder, unceremoniously snapped from the trance of his arousal. Visibly, achingly, he’s searching for words that won’t come. You take it upon yourself to help him out.

“I am.” It’s unsatisfactory; his silence tells you this. For a moment there’s only his measured breathing. But you know what he’s not saying, and he doesn’t have to tell you. It’s there again—the old voice in his head, convincing him he doesn’t deserve any of this, much less the privilege of asking for anything more. The quickly vining doubt in him dictates it: allowing himself this is the most selfish thing he can do. 

You cup his face in your hands so he can’t turn away from you.

“Matt, I know what you’re thinking,” you say gently. “I want this, alright?”

For a split second, you wonder what it’ll take to pull him back from his misery. You swallow, rubbing the sides of your thumbs along his cheeks soothingly. “I want it. Not in spite of your life; because of it. Yes, you bleed and lie and you flake out and… keep going on these fucking suicide missions and yes, yes they scare the shit out of me… But even if I’m scared, I believe you’ll come home, because you always do; that’s who you are. You keep getting back up even if the world’s given you so much reason to be unkind to it.” 

Wordlessly, you reach up and remove his glasses gingerly, tossing them toward the table. They land somewhere with a dull clatter. In the half-light of the living room, you can only make out parts of him, the cut of his cheekbone, the impressionistic slopes of definition on his face. This must be just a fraction of how he sees you, defined solely by blunt form and sensation.

“And that’s why I’m here, too. It’s just my choice as it is yours.” You press your forehead to his, finding him scorching against your clammy skin, before pulling back again. “Your night patrols, all that… If you believe that people deserve all the chances they can get, that there’s always a future for them no matter what came before, then have faith that it includes you, Matt. Everything you fight for is why I believe we could do this. What’s ahead could be dangerous, but what if it’s worth it a—what’s that word you like?” Your lips quirk slightly. “A thousandfold more. We can still bring good into the world, in all the ways we can, can’t we?”

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He closes his eyes. He does want it, all of it, more than anything in the world and he’s being the greediest man in the world right now, taking and taking and you’re letting him. Have faith that it includes you.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Well, it is. It’s no question if it’s with you.” You pause for a bit, before leaning back in, eyebrows wiggling playfully. “And you know, I haven’t refilled my prescription… So if we do this, it’s real. So ask me again.”

An incredulous, lighthearted scoff finally breaks through him. “Unbelievable. Are you sure you’re not the lawyer between us, sweetheart? That was one hell of an argument,” he says, chuckling boyishly through the pecks you’ve started to nip on his cheeks. “Fine. Last chance—are you sure about this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ha, ha, Mr. Murdock. Please. As if you believe in last chances.” 

He grins, can’t help it, can’t hide it; it’s crooked and a little desperate. But it’s impossible to skirt around it, your body betraying every rational thought. “Yes,” you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. “Yes, I want this. I want you.”

The words have barely left your mouth before Matt presses his hips into yours again, his groan muffled against your neck. The conversation has quelled the worst of his fears—but not the hunger. If anything, your unshakeable trust in him has unleashed something deeper within, darker and older than guilt. Something he can’t say aloud.

But God knows it. And he knows it.

The knowledge threatens to unmake him: he could fill you now, right now with your heated body primed and the timing perfect, let nature take its course. Your cunt is soft and warm and open, ripe and ready for him. And fuck, it hits him like a train.

Fucking you full to knock you up, marking you with proof of your unwavering faith— 

The thought makes his cock ache so hard it’s a mercy he’s still clothed.

Conversely you’re a mess, dress bunched up and panties soaked, and your heart is beating so hard you’re sure it’s deafening him. Matt locks your thighs over his forearms and carries you down the hall in steady steps, kiss never breaking until your back finally hits the bed. He’s over you in seconds, broad and solid and trembling with restraint that’s quickly breaking.

He looms above you, working deftly on the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other braced beside you on the mattress to keep you where he wants you. His lips—rosy and pouted, kiss-swollen—curl into a knowing half-smirk.

“You have no idea,” his voice is rich with the thickness of his lust, “the way you taste and smell right now. If you could feel what I feel standing this close to you, you’d lose your mind.”

The shirt finally slips free, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your eyes trail over his chest, marked by two long scars like uneven wings taking flight. Then his broad shoulders, the planes and valleys of muscle. Oh, Christ. He leans down, his hands already finding the material of your dress.

“Up,” he coaxes, warm but unyielding. You obey instinctively, helpless to raise your arms up and shimmy a little so he can peel the dress up and toss it aside in one smooth motion. His lips descend to your collarbone, stubble grazing the sensitive skin there as he kisses you with maddening patience. Every sensation of his tickling, hot breath sends sparks rushing through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough. You squirm, desperate for more, but he’s already working his way down—kisses tracing paths between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.

Nose nudging against the soaked fabric, Matt inhales deep, a shameless groan rumbling from his chest as his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread. “Fuck,” he murmurs, “you’re dripping for me, honey. Been like this since the train home, haven’t you?”

You flush but don’t deny it. The damp feel of the delicate lace between your thighs is proof enough. He chuckles softly at your silence, a finger twisting under the waistband to peel the damp fabric down, sliding it off the smooth skin of your legs to toss it aside. And suddenly, the room seems to be completely saturated by your arousal, steeping into every inch of air he pulls into his lungs.

Still, Matt doesn’t seem to be in any rush. His lips return to your inner thighs, tracing sultry kisses to burning flesh. Thighs pressed to his ears, the sound of your arteries reverberates like a drumline inside his skull. Femoral, uterine, iliac —he can name every one he hears. A symphony thrumming for him, hot and rhythmic. He kisses the spot where it sings beneath your skin.

(What an asshole, you’re thinking, knowing his every peck is deliberate; every drag of his tongue is just close enough to where you need him that it makes you squeal with frustration.)

“Matt,” you snip, tugging at his locks to guide him where you want him. “Stop teasing and just fuck me already!”

He pulls back from between your legs, lips curved into a cocky grin. “Be patient,” he chides, shaking his head like you’re a child spoiled rotten. “I gotta take care of you first, don’t I?”

You open your mouth to argue, but he isn’t done.

“I heard, it’ll take better if you come first,” he says evenly, using that court voice, the one he uses to explain the facts of a case and win over the jury without fail. “So… I’m gonna make you come again…” a kiss on the inner side of your knee, “…and again….” on your inner thigh, “…and again…” on your pubic mound, “…until your body has no choice but to take me.”

The filthy promise pulls you taut as his nose bumps against your clit. “Oh? And just where did you hear this news from, Counselor– Oh Christ–!” You gasp, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue darts out, tasting you lightly before pulling back just long enough to smirk at how you tremble under him.

“See?” Matt says, voice positively dripping with smugness. “You’re already so wet, sweetheart. Let me handle it, alright?”

And then he buries himself between your thighs, his tongue delving into your folds with ravenous precision. Fuck, he could die happy right then, the sour-sweet taste of your slickness robust and vividly ripe on his tongue, incomparable to its scent he’d only enjoyed since before that point. You cry out, your head falling back to the mattress as he pulls you higher with every stroke of his tongue, every flick and flat press against your clit, mouth working generously to kiss your needy cunt open.

Determined to see you come undone, he dives his rough fingers into you, his tongue maintaining pressure upon your clit. Your walls clench at the sensation of being breached, nerves going haywire with excitement as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. When you call out his name, he brushes at that sensitive spot, conditioning you by the whimpers and cries falling out of your mouth. Training you like an animal to associate the heightened pleasure with his name, though really he has no need to. No one has ever touched you with such precise devotion as him. 

Your heels dig into his back, hips canting to demand more. Matt grunts against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you can feel the mattress dipping slightly as he ruts against it, his own desperation spilling over.

“Matty—fuck—” you pant, hands clutching at the sheets. He only growls in response, his free hand curling against your legs to hold you in place, barring any attempt at escape. He’s eating you like a man starved, shamelessly groaning and fucking the mattress at your taste—and with the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap, you fold and unfold, instinctively trying to get away.

But Matt, all-knowing and bent on denying you the privilege of holding back, presses down harder inside you, rubbing while he sucks at your clit. You curse uncontrollably and the white-hot high finally, finally washes over you violently, downwards, down then up with your thighs clamped around his head, clenching around his thick, thrusting fingers. Matt refuses to slow down or let up, working you through every spasm until you’re left a panting, boneless mess beneath him.

“Christ,” you mutter weakly, when you can get it together enough to speak. The world’s still spinning around you, folded inwards to just the sight of him sitting back on his heels. His mouth and jaw are obscenely glistening with your wetness. Matt, sensing your hitched breath, correctly infers that you’re staring shamelessly at him, and at the bulge that’s tented angrily between his legs.

Smug little shit that he is, he brings his hand up to his mouth. The pretty-pink petals of his lips purse around his fingers as he revels in your taste. Matt hums his praise low in his throat, but you don’t get to enjoy the show as much as you want. The mattress shifts, and his hands close tight around your waist, turning you over onto your arms and knees.

Bent over for him, the anticipation is electric, your body still oversensitive from your high. But you can’t help it, that errant need to reassert yourself.

“Jesus, finally,” you muse, smirking above your shoulder. “I was starting to think you were all talk, Counselor.”

That earns a snap.

You hear the leathery rasp of his belt sliding through the loops of his pants, a sound that makes your toes curl.

“Watch your mouth,” he says, pushing your head forward. He leans down to press a hard, claiming kiss to your shoulder blade. The cold metal of the belt buckle kisses your wrists a moment later, and he binds them behind your back in a practiced knot, giving the binding a perfunctory tug to test its hold. 

Oh. Fuck.

Every inch of your arched posture has you laid bare for him in surrender. Your shoulders are sunken into the mattress, having lost the arms to brace yourself with. Ever the gentleman, he holds you steady with a firm grip while the other hand touches between your thighs, trailing all the way to your wet slit. He inhales sharply at the mess waiting for him, your arousal clinging sticky up to his knuckles. 

Matt huffs a laugh under his breath.

“So fucking ready for me,” he murmurs. 

Fisting his cock, he gives it a few rough tugs, precum slicking over his palm as he aligns his hips behind you, pushing forward. You feel the fat, hot head of his cock notch between your folds, and your cunt clenches on instinct, greedy for the stretch about to come. But Matt’s cruel with his patience, and his pace is leisurely slow.

One of his hands finds the knot of your bound wrists and tightens his grip, using the tension to anchor himself. 

He’s soaking in every detail. How your heat radiates off every cell of your skin; the fertile slick seeping out of you, perfuming the air so thickly he can taste it on his tongue. He can hear your heartbeat in your cunt, veins rushing with blood and fuck, he wants to ruin it, claim you with a violence that will leave no doubt in your body, least not in your womb. But even completely soaked, he knows your body needs time to adjust to him.

You whimper, pushing back to take control, but Matt holds you rooted in place. “Ah,” he tuts, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You’re not getting it that easy, sweetheart. Patience, remember?”

“I literally just fucking came!”

He grits his teeth. The blunt crest of his cock presses into you, splitting you open and it knocks any trace of defiance from your mouth, bordering on too much but your pussy’s welcoming it, spasming around the overwhelming sensation as he fills you to the hilt.

“Oh fuck—” you gasp, “you’re so deep, Matt– Matt—”

“Yeah?” Voice almost cracking as he draws his hips back, only to thrust forward again with a punishing roll that has you keening. “I told you. So fucking tight. Jesus. Your pussy’s just pulling me in.”

Your body jolts with every thrust, each one driving deeper, testing the limits of what you can take. Every time he slams in, your cunt makes a wet humiliating sound and then the hand gripping your wrists slides up, pushing between your shoulder blades to shove you down hard into the mattress as his movements pick up. Fucking you in earnest, his cock drilling into your heat with a brutal, single-minded rhythm that has you whimpering, crying out his name.

“Listen to how wet you are,” he snarls, grabbing the round swell of your ass, “you want it as bad as I do. You smelled so fucking good all day, d’you know how hard it was for me? It was torture. So good with that baby— Gonna let me give you one? Make you mine? Do you want that, honey?”

“Yes–fuck–yes,” you’re panting, thighs trembling as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens, “want it so bad, Matt, don’t stop–”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” Matt growls, his chest pressing flush against your back. His breath is hot and wet in your ear. “How many kids do you want, honey? I’ll give you as many as you’ll let me. I’ll put one in you right now. Not gonna stop til I fill you up.”

The shift in angle forces a sob from you as he sinks even deeper, his cock grinding up deeper than before, hitting that unbearable bundle of nerves with a dense pressure that makes your vision blur at the edges. Your arms are still trapped between your bodies, they’re numb and aching but it feels so so good, getting fucked by your husband with abandon. Matt doesn’t falter; he’s fully over you, pinning you down with his full weight as his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the tender skin before biting down hard.

You cry out, pain-blinded. The sharpness slices clean through you and with the overwhelming heat, the stretch of him inside you—there it is, you come undone with a fractured sob, violent and searing. Your bound hands writhe uselessly, the bite on your shoulder singing as your vision whites out. Your ears ring, barely registering Matt’s voice swimming in and out of focus, calling you Good girl good girl… his hand petting your head, stroking your hair as your body shakes for him.

Then he’s pushing himself upright again, pulling out and rising to his knees behind you. His praises are still trailing out of him in soft whispers. One hand reaches for the belt at your wrists, tugging—your spine pulled upright by the motion. You whimper a breathy protest as your limbs stretch from disuse.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, voice buttery and low. He sounds so sweet it makes your bruised core flutter, even now. His hands work at the leather binding behind you and finally, mercifully, you’re freed. But your body’s limp, shaking from the aftermath, and without the belt holding you up, you collapse forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Matt chuckles. “Easy, baby.”

He eases you over onto your back carefully, slipping a pillow under your spine to support your sore back. He’s pressing kisses all over your cheeks— and his cock, still swollen and slick with your release, twitches at the salt clinging to his mouth. You’ve been crying.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle along your jaw. “So sweet for me. Is my girl tired?”

You can barely say anything; you nod shakily. Your arms are tingling from the blood finally returning.

“And does she want to stop, hm?” A kiss to your cheek. “Does my sweet girl want to stop?”

You manage a small shake of your head.

A rough, pleased sound rumbles from his chest. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

The pins and needles in your arms are buzzing unpleasantly, but your cunt clenches at his voice anyway. You whine pitifully, and of course he hears.

“One more, alright, honey? Will you give me one more?”

Then he’s shifting, settling himself between your legs again. His hands wrap under your knees–thumbs pressing into the tender divots beneath the joints—and he presses them forward, toward your shoulders. Folded in half, you gasp at the stretch. Completely open beneath him, pinned by nothing but his weight, you shiver under the totality of his presence over you.

“This,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your lower belly, “this is where our baby’s gonna grow, sweetheart. Right here.”

The blunt head of his cock nudges at your entrance and you’re so wet it slides through the mess of your arousal, teasing but not entering, just enough to make you sob.

“Matt—please—”

“Shh,” he soothes, lining himself up, pressing in. “There we go. So good for me, you’re taking it so well.”

This angle—God, it’s worse than before; better than it. Deeper, impossibly so, hitting places inside you you’ve never felt before, spots that send your nerves screaming. You sob helplessly as your body struggles to accommodate him, every thrust dragging against your walls, each ridge and vein of his cock felt completely. 

“C’mon,” he pants as his movements pick up the pace, thrusts growing fast and erratic. “Gimme this one, sweetheart. Just one more for me, I promise.”

The bed protests beneath you, the frame rattling against the wall. The wet slap of skin fills the room, and just as you start to feel that sharpness creeping up again, something stupid occurs to you: you’re loud. Your screams, the creak of the bed, the sound of your cunt around him– the neighbors—

You turn your head, trying to muffle yourself against your arm.

Matt growls, yanking your arm down and at the same time, he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with bruising force, hard enough to knock all the breath from your lungs. You can’t stop the scream of his name torn from your throat.

“Matt— please, the neighbors—”

“No,” he snarls. “I’m your husband. I get to fuck you as loud as I want. You want this?” 

You nod frantically, too breathless to answer.

His hand finds your throat, grasping firmly around the delicate column. He feels the hammer of your pulse against his palm, heavy and turbulent like a rushing flood. He tightens his grip just enough to feel it catch beneath his thumb. To him, it seems unmistakably perverse—this power to still you if he wanted. And yet your trust is entire, your faith in him unshaken. 

“Then let them hear,” he says. “Let them hear what I do to my wife. Let them know how good I’m fucking her.”

A generous god, a present one. That’s what you’ve made him.

“Say my name,” he demands, voice rough, “want to feel it in your throat.”

“Matthew,” you choke out, completely helpless to his touch. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew…

It’s slipping. That darker thing inside him rising, coaxed loose by the mess of needy wetness where you’re connected. It wants to claim you and mark you, become His peer, one worthy of your devotion. 

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He licks the salt from your neck. “Can feel how close you are.”

His hand leaves your throat and presses flat against your stomach, right above where his cock punches deep. The pressure of his cock bulging under his palm sends another wave through your body. The feeling at the pit of your gut’s starting to rapidly swell, acute and compounding by the second as he fucks you with the whole length of his cock. 

“Feel that?” he rasps, pressing down harder. “That’s where m’gonna fill you. Right into your womb. And if it doesn’t take this time— I’ll fucking make sure it does the next. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”

Then his hand drops lower, to your cunt, gathering your creamy slick with his thumb to rub the swollen nub of your clit with. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he says, the words strangled. “Come while I fuck my baby into you.”

You look down where you’re connected, where his cock sinks in and out of you, coated in slick and so much need and you break. Your walls seize around his length, body convulsing as your climax tears through you. You cry out, legs twitching and nails raking across the sheets. Above you, Matt groans with a guttural, broken sound. His hips drive forward once, twice—the head of his cock kissing the ripe seal of your womb, and then he’s coming, thick and hot, filling you with so much it leaks around his cock even as he keeps pumping deep as he can go. His sweat’s dripping onto you as he holds you tightly, arms trembling with the effort of staying upright. You twitch beneath him, aftershocks rolling still and he collapses onto you, pulsing with the last desperate pulses of cum from his cock.

Your body’s completely pliant, legs trembling even when he finally stills. 

“Let gravity help,” he says, easing out gently. He slips the pillow from beneath your back and tucks it under your hips, before slumping beside you. You giggle weakly, nuzzling into his neck. Your sweet husband’s back, placing soft lingering kisses all over your face as his chest heaves from the earlier exertion.

“So,” you start, the haze starting to set, “can you really tell?”

“...Yes,” Matt admits. His voice is husky, warm with affection. “You smell different. And you’re warmer, just a little–”

“Smell different?! Do I stink or something?”

He laughs into your hair, arm pulling you in tight. “Sweetheart, I think we’ve established well enough that you smell absolutely beguiling to me.”

You roll your eyes, your finger tracing absent shapes on his chest. Heart, triangle, star. He hums at each one.

Smiley face. That earns a chuckle. 

“Anyway, you weren’t half bad with Teddy either,” you muse thoughtfully. “I think you’d make an amazing dad.”

You opt not to tease him about the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Matt.” You clear your throat. “You know, I really do want it, but… I just want you to know that I’m happy, even just now. And I’m not stupid, I know you could…,” you try not to say die, “...well, the worst could happen. Even then, I’d still want this life with you, whatever I can get. When we got married, I knew that would come with it, and– And if we do have a kid, if the future holds that for us, then it won’t just be us. We have Foggy and Karen and Marci, and my family, too. Takes a village and all that, y’know?”

You pause to catch your breath, Matt nodding you on.

“Point is, we’ll never be left alone, no matter what. I know that’s something you worry about a lot. So if– if something ever did happen to you…” You force yourself to say it, “we’d survive. We can keep living. But between surviving with you and without you, I’ll always choose with. So I’m asking you to let yourself have this. If you really want it. Just promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Have faith that it includes you.

He’s silent for a moment, his hand stroking gently at the slope of your arm.

“I promise,” he says at last, “I really do want it.”

He knows you know the rest. That’s all he can say, pressing a kiss to your temple. Thank you isn’t nearly enough, but it buzzes in his pulse anyway. Smiling faintly into your hair, he lets it stretch just long enough… Before the gravity of the moment slips from his shoulders, not all the way but just enough to let in that familiar, crooked grin.

“Oh, but you know, honey,” he murmurs, lips on your cheek, “you’re not pregnant yet.”

The laugh bubbles from your throat, and he can feel the sound against his skin.

“That was just round one.” His hand slides down to grip your thigh, and he feels you shiver. Perfect. “Let’s get to work then, Counselor.”

a/n: i want his kids swimming in me

[solinadarvenel-library]

What is it, the suit?

Pairing: Matt Murdock x f!reader

Summary: Matt thinks the object of his affection is turned off by Daredevil. Angst, fluff, smut. (I suck at summaries).

Matt didn’t mean to be bothered by it. He told himself it didn’t matter: your reactions, your silences, the way your breath stayed steady when he leaned in close in the suit. You weren’t obligated to feel anything. You’d been a good friend. You’d accepted the truth when it could’ve sent you running.

Still, it nagged at him.

You got flustered around Matt Murdock, the blind lawyer in soft sweaters. He could feel it. The flutter of your pulse, the heat that rushed to your cheeks when he complimented your laugh, your outfit, the way you called him an idiot under your breath. But around Daredevil?

Nothing.

No spike in heart rate. No shift in your scent. No sharp inhale when he towered near, bloodstained and breathless. Not even when he came back with a cracked rib and you pressed your palm to his chest, scolding him in a shaking whisper.

He could hear your worry. He could feel your care. But he didn’t feel want. Not in the way he usually did.

So the thought took root. Maybe you just didn’t want that part of him. The brutal part. The man in the devil’s skin.

And that? That stung more than he wanted to admit.

You noticed it gradually, that he wasn’t teasing you like he used to. The casual flirtation had faded into polite restraint. He kept his distance. Even when he showed up late at night, bruised and bleeding, he was careful not to sit too close on your couch. His voice stayed neutral. His hands never brushed yours.

You thought you’d done something wrong.

It wasn’t until he was nearly asleep on your couch one night, blood dried and ribs aching, that you worked up the nerve.

“Matt?” you asked softly, kneeling by the couch where he laid shirtless beneath your throw blanket.

He hummed. Exhausted, but listening.

“Did I do something to…I don’t know. Make you uncomfortable?”

His brow furrowed behind the crimson lenses. “No. God, no.”

“You’ve just been…” You hesitated. “Different. Ever since I found out. About this.”

Silence.

His pulse ticked up.

“I thought maybe I made you feel like I was afraid of you.”

He exhaled a dry laugh. “No. It’s not that.”

You stayed quiet, waiting.

After a moment, he said, “You used to get nervous around me. When I flirted. I could feel it. Hear it. But once the mask was off, once you knew what I was...”

He shook his head. “You’re still here. You still care. But you’re not…” His jaw flexed. “You’re not attracted to me.”

The words made your stomach twist.

“What?” you breathed.

He sat up slowly, hissing as his side twinged. His voice dropped, low and careful.

“When I wear the suit…nothing changes. I’m inches from you, and I don’t smell it. Your arousal. I don’t hear your breath hitch. I don’t feel that shift in your body that tells me I’m getting to you.” He swallowed. “And that’s fine. It’s not your job to be into me. I just…”

His words trailed off. He looked almost embarrassed.

You were stunned.

“Matt,” you said, heart hammering. “That’s not...I am into you.”

His head tilted slightly.

“You are?”

“Of course.” You let out a breathless laugh, nerves rising. “I just…I don’t get turned on when you’re in full fight mode. Or stomping across rooftops like some gothic angel of vengeance.”

He smirked faintly.

“I get turned on when you’re here. When you’re safe. When you talk to me like I matter and you lean in like this....” Your hand brushed his bare arm without thinking. “And you’re warm and you smell like soap and blood and leather and you say my name like you mean it.”

He was quiet. Still.

“And when you touch me,” you added, barely above a whisper. “Not because you’re trying to start something. Just…because you’re there. And I feel safe.”

He touched your cheek then, slowly. Gently. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, and your eyes fluttered.

“That,” he said, voice rough with wonder. “I feel that.”

Your breath stuttered.

He moved closer, tentative. “Can I...?”

You nodded before he finished.

When his lips met yours, soft and reverent, your body melted into him like it was the only thing it knew how to do.

And this time, he felt it.

Every shiver. Every quiet whimper. Every pulse of heat that finally told him the truth:

You didn’t need the devil in red.

You wanted the man who made you feel safe in the dark.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Pity, maybe. A gentle letdown. An awkward change of subject and you disappearing into the kitchen to make tea while he tried not to bleed on your throw blanket.

But not this. Not you.

Not the sudden, quiet confession that unraveled him faster than any pressure point ever could.

That was when he felt it. The way your body tipped toward his without meaning to. Your breath changed, shallow, uncertain, wanting. Your skin warmed. Your pulse fluttered like a bird inside your throat, and he could hear it beating against your ribcage like you were afraid you’d been too honest.

He barely touched your cheek and you shivered like he’d kissed you.

Christ.

He hadn’t been wrong about the silence, about the missing signals. He just hadn’t understood why.

He kissed you like he might disappear if he wasn’t careful. Not like one of the usual ones: fast, practiced, done before anyone caught feelings. This one was different.

Your lips were soft, hesitant at first, but then your hands were in his hair and your mouth parted for him, and it hit him hard, how long he’d wanted this. How many nights he’d imagined you in reach but off-limits. How many times he’d walked away because he thought you didn’t want him.

He’d gotten it so wrong.

You whimpered when his hand cupped your face, soft and barely there, but it made his pulse jackknife.

That sound. The way you melted under his touch, not because he’d forced your defenses down, but because he made you feel safe.

No one had ever told him that before. That safety turned them on. Not the danger. Not the thrill.

It was humbling. Devastating. Beautiful.

“God,” he breathed against your mouth. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

Your fingers clutched the back of his neck, like you didn’t trust him to stay otherwise.

A quiet sound escaped your throat. Half sigh, half ache.

Matt’s hand slid to your waist, slow, deliberate, giving you every second to stop him.

You didn’t.

When he kissed you again, deeper this time, your whole body gave in like it had been waiting for permission.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t want to rush.

He wanted to deserve this.

You didn’t let go of him. Your hands stayed tangled in his hair, your mouth soft and open under his, your body pressed close like you didn’t know how to be anywhere else. And God, he wanted to take his time with you. He wanted to know every inch of what safety meant to you, how it made you melt, how it made you burn.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

You made a small, shaky sound. “You.”

“Yeah?” His hand drifted to your waist. “You’ve got me.”

You exhaled, slow and trembling, like something unspooled inside you.

Matt could hear everything, your heartbeat pounding, breath catching, blood rushing hot and low. You were so worked up from nothing but a kiss and a touch, from the steady cadence of his voice and the simple fact that he was here. With you. Not in the mask. Not as a symbol. As a man. As your man.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he whispered, guiding you gently to sit astride his lap. “You can take whatever you want from me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your thighs bracketed his hips, and the moment your weight settled over him, his restraint wavered.

Fuck.

You were already warm. Already wet. He could feel it through the soft barrier of your clothes, heat and pressure and the involuntary roll of your hips as you gasped.

“Oh...Matt.”

He cradled your face in both hands and kissed you like he could breathe you in. Like the sound of his name on your lips was a prayer he’d waited years to hear.

“You’re gorgeous,” he rasped. “You don’t even know.”

He kissed your throat, when he slid one hand down and cupped the heat between your legs.

Still clothed. Still soft.

And you whimpered.

That sound nearly undid him.

“Sensitive,” he murmured. “Is it because you feel safe, sweetheart?”

You nodded, dazed, and he pressed a little harder, slow circles through your underwear.

“God,” he growled, “you’re killing me.”

His fingers moved with reverence, stroking through damp fabric, teasing you with maddening patience. Your hips jerked forward and he stilled you with a firm hand on your lower back.

“Easy,” he whispered. “We have time. Let me take care of you.”

You shivered.

He guided you down onto your back, lips trailing your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. He listened to every twitch, every flutter of breath, every barely-there gasp when he undressed you slowly, like unwrapping something sacred.

And when he finally put his mouth on you - tongue slow and deliberate, fingers anchoring your thighs - you cried out like you’d never been touched before.

That sound would haunt him.

So would the way you fell apart, trembling and soaked, whispering his name like it meant something holy.

When he slid up your body and kissed you again, you clung to him, eyes glassy, mouth open, begging without words.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Matt, please.”

He pushed in slowly, gently, watching your breath hitch with every inch.

You were so tight. So warm. So open for him.

When he started to move, deep and steady, your moans turned breathless. Desperate.

Every thrust had you clinging tighter, pressing your mouth to his jaw, his neck, anywhere you could reach.

You were shaking again.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I...I’m gonna...” Your whole body tensed. “Don’t stop, please...”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He held you close and kept going, murmuring your name, telling you how good you felt, how beautiful you were like this - with him, falling apart in his arms.

You came with a soft cry, burying your face in his shoulder, and that was it.

He followed you over the edge, groaning into your neck, held there by the sweetness of your arms and the pounding of your heart against his.

It took a long time for either of you to move.

Longer for him to stop holding you like he might lose you again.

Then you finally whispered, “Still think I’m not into you?” with a tiny, teasing smile.

He laughed, low and wrecked.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I get it now.”

a/n: This is my first Daredevil fic, spare me.

[solinadarvenel-library]

a reaction ; matt murdock

creator's note: he seems like the typa guy thats fun to mess with ngl. oops. also ive got no idea why my keyboard's going from ‘ to ' or " to “ like wtf??... choose a side

warnings: suggestive content (sex, orgasms), mild language, scaring the living soul out of Matthew, not proofread.

word count: 1.2k

You had to admit: it was almost too easy to mess with Matt Murdock. The man was a literal human lie detector, but also one of the most serious people you’d ever met—always walking that tightrope between the weight of the world and his Catholic guilt. All brooding muscles and soft hands, all charm and gravitas and stubborn certainty that he knows everything about you, down to your heartbeat.

Which is why it was perfect.

He sat across from you now on the old leather couch in your apartment, wearing one of his fitted henleys, sleeves pushed up, exposing the scarred forearms that had gotten you in more trouble than you'd care to admit. His cane rested against the coffee table. The scent of Chinese takeout lingered in the air, and he was so comfortable right now—so unguarded—that it made you want to ruin him a little.

Just a little.

You leaned back, staring at him seriously. He could sense the change in your heartbeat instantly, lifting his chin slightly.

“…What?” He questioned. His voice was low, a little cautious.

You took a breath, letting your face fall into perfect solemnity.

“I need to tell you something,” you started. “And I need you to not freak out.”

Matt sat up a little straighter. “Okay. I won’t.”

You hesitated just long enough to make it feel real, heart rate steady despite the flutter of amusement building in your chest. It was a game of control now—keeping your breathing just calm enough that he wouldn’t catch on. You were a very good actor.

You stared him down. “I’ve never actually… orgasmed. With you.”

The silence was immediate and stunning.

Matt didn’t move. For a moment you weren’t even sure he could. His head tilted slightly, as if he’d misheard. His lips parted, brow furrowed. He looked… genuinely lost.

“What?” His voice cracked the air, sharp and disbelieving. “Wait. What do you mean?”

You kept your tone somber, even while inside you were already cackling.

“I mean,” you said slowly, folding your arms and looking down at your lap, “I faked it. Every time.”

He blinked hard. “That… that doesn’t make sense.”

You watched him spiral—beautifully.

“I would’ve heard—” he started, then cut himself off, visibly calculating. “Your heart rate, the way your body contracts, the—everything. I would’ve known. I always know.”

You shrugged, sighing. “I guess I’m just a better liar than you thought.”

“No,” he said quickly, frowning. “No, I don’t believe that. You can’t fake that level of physiological response. It’s not just sounds or breath or whatever—it’s the actual involuntary responses. The dopamine shifts. Endorphins. Your pupils. You can’t fake that.”

You raised a brow. “Maybe I’m just built different.”

Matt stood up, practically pacing now, one hand raking through his hair. “No. I—I know your body. Every twitch, every shift in your blood flow. I feel it. You can’t have faked it.”

You sat back and watched him unravel, utterly entertained. God, he looked like he was reviewing courtroom testimony in his head—flipping through every encounter, searching for inconsistencies.

“And the time in the shower?” he muttered, mostly to himself. “No. No, you clenched around me. I—I heard your breath catch, you trembled for minutes afterward—”

You couldn’t hold it anymore. The snicker escaped.

“I’m joking.”

Matt froze.

You bit your lip, stifling a snort. “Matt, baby. I’m messing with you.”

He turned, face blank. “…You’re what?”

You couldn’t hold the laughter anymore, a chuckle leaving your lips. “Holy shit, you should’ve seen your face—Matt—you looked fuckin’ petrified.”

He stared at you, mouth slightly open. “…You little shit.”

You were laughing now, almost falling off the couch. “You—Christ, you started listing biological functions. You were about to launch into a TED talk on orgasms!”

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I thought—I really thought—”

A beat.

“I really thought you were serious!” Matt’s voice pitched up, rare and exasperated, his hand still pressed over his face like he could physically block the memory of the last two minutes. “Do you have any idea—Jesus—I was about to call Nelson.”

That made you laugh harder, clutching your stomach now, shoulders shaking.

“Matt, what were you gonna do? Sue me?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

You wiped at your eyes, breath hitching as the giggles slowed, though a rogue laugh still slipped out. Matt lowered his hand, and there it was—that look. The one he gave you when you drove him insane. Jaw tense, lips parted like he wanted to say something biting but couldn’t quite find the words.

Red flushed at the tips of his ears.

“Unbelievable.” He ran his hand through his hair again, muttering under his breath. “I—I was sitting here trying to remember if I damaged your fucking pudendal nerve or something—”

That sent you into another fit of laughter, head tilted back against the couch cushion.

“I swear to God,” he mumbled, cheeks flushed now, pacing again. “I was thinking, Did I hit the wrong pressure point? Did I cause some kind of nerve damage? Is this my penance?”

“Your penance?” You gasped between laughs. “Matt—baby—you’re already Daredevil. You can’t stack punishments.”

He huffed, stopping mid-pace to point vaguely in your direction. “Don’t baby me right now. That was cruel.”

“Oh, c’mon.” You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, smirking at him. “You’re telling me you don’t deserve a little chaos? Mr. ‘I can hear your heartbeat from three blocks away’? Mr. ‘I’m always right because my senses say so’?”

“That’s not—” His jaw clicked shut. He crossed his arms, standing stiff in the center of the room. “That’s not what I do.”

You raised your brows. “Oh, really? You don’t weaponize your superhuman bullshit every single day to one-up people?”

“I don’t.”

“You do.” You grinned, leaning back again, completely unrepentant. “So I decided to humble you. Level the playing field.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but instead he just scowled, his brow furrowing deeply. “That was low.”

You tried to fight the smile this time—tried—but failed spectacularly. “Matt, I love you, but you’re a control freak. This was bound to happen eventually.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then pointed at you again, almost accusingly. “You planned that.”

“I absolutely did.”

“For how long?”

You shrugged. “Couple weeks.”

His lips parted like he was going to argue again, but then he groaned, sinking back onto the couch beside you, his hands dragging down his face. “Unbelievable. I can dodge bullets, but I can’t even dodge you.”

“Damn right.” You nudged his thigh with yours, voice softening just a bit. “Hey. You okay?”

He peeked at you between his fingers, cheeks still red. “I don’t know. I think my soul left my body for a second there.”

You laughed again, but this time you slid your hand onto his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tone playful but warmer now. “Okay? You’re incredible. You always take care of me. Every time.”

Matt lowered his hands, breathing out slow, letting his head tilt toward you just enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

“…You really got me,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That was evil.”

“Yeah,” you said, grin curling against his temple. “But it was kinda funny.”

He scoffed. “Not even remotely.”

Your fingers trailed up his thigh, slow, teasing.

“Oh, come on, Matty. Admit it.”

He groaned under his breath, but he didn’t pull away—he never did.

“…Maybe a little.”

You smiled against his skin, lips brushing his jaw. “Thought so.”

And for once, Matt Murdock—the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen—let you win.

kruegerspillow © 2025 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[solinadarvenel-library]

Somewhere Only We Know

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Five hours of snowfall, four miles from the nearest paved road, three weeks before Christmas, two old friends and one bed….

Warnings: 18+smut, minors DNI, fingering, handjob, vaginal sex, passing mention of oral sex, all sorts of feelings.

Word Count: 7.9 k I'm so sorry...

Build a blurb prompt 1: Benedict 👅 smut 🌲 mutual pining 🛌 only one bed - from @amillcitygirl Build a blurb prompt 2: modern Benedict 👅smut 👥friends to lovers 🌲mutual pining 🛌only one bed - from anon

Authors Note: *beep beep* make way for the trope bus, it’s coming thru!! Is this original? No. Was it fun to write? Hell YES! This thing was supposed to be 1k follower celebration Drabble (HAHAHA) but it grew its own legs and took over my brain for the last week. This is my winter epic and I even listened to the namesake song as I was editing it. I hope you all enjoy. Betaed by the total trooper @makaylan and beautiful artwork above made especially by @bridgertontess thank you 🧡

“You’ll just have to stay here,” he shrugs, peering out at the falling snow.

You glance at your watch. It’s 5pm and already dark, snowflakes swirling furiously in the glow cast by the window.

This was not your plan. You are booked onto a late flight back to London tonight. You only came out to the beautiful Highlands for a day in nature after your business trip to Glasgow. OK, and a dose of time with the most handsome friend you have, but mainly for the scenery.

He’s rented a tiny cottage for a week as a painting retreat. Why he would do that in early December is a slight mystery. However, the scenery will undoubtedly be even more breathtaking with a blanket of snow tomorrow—an artist's dream.

“Look, the roads here are tiny and treacherous. It’s too risky to attempt the airport drive tonight in the dark in this snowstorm. I will pay for you to fly home tomorrow instead,” Benedict assures, “penance for not checking the forecast before inviting you?” he winces in the hopes of forgiveness.

“But…” you protest weakly, not exactly hating the idea of being trapped in a remote cottage in the mountains with the man who has haunted your dreams for more years than you care to remember.

“This place is warm,” he points to the roaring fireplace. “And well stocked, in more ways than one,” he adds, gesturing to the kitchenette full of supplies and, with a flourish, to the small selection of single malt bottles on a nearby shelf. “There’s even some festive decor,” he argues.

You are entertained that he believes some sprigs of holly, which he has obviously collected on one of his hikes, count as Christmas decorations. Although, to be fair, wrapped around the bookshelves and candles the way it is, it does look lovely.

‘Yes, but… there's also only one bed,” you argue, nodding to the not-exactly sizable double bed at the other end of the room, partially obscured by a room-dividing bookshelf. Even as you mention it, your belly has a warm fizz at the fleeting thought of waking up pressed against him.

“I can sleep on the sofa,” he says hurriedly in a reassuring tone.

“Ben, don't be ridiculous. You are six feet tall, and that thing is barely five. We are not so young we can just sleep anywhere and still be okay anymore,” you remind him.

“Yeah, thanks for that reminder,” he deadpans.

“We are grown-ups; we can share a bed,” trying to keep your tone breezy, but it feels like the reassurance is for yourself as much as him.

You pretend not to see how he swallows thickly at your suggestion, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily.

“If it makes you more comfortable, I can fashion a barrier with some throw cushions,” you shrug, a short nervous laugh bubbling up as you secretly chastise yourself for suggesting such a thing.

“No, no,” he rushes out very quickly. “What I mean is… it’s not a big bed, so by the time we do that, we would both be clinging to the edges. Let’s just, as you say, be adults about this and share the best we can.”

“Agreed.” You give a business-like nod, wanting to change the topic.

“Besides, the night is young,” he states, clapping and rubbing his hands together as if reading your mind. “What do you say we cook dinner together? Then, well, it’s card games or jigsaw puzzles, I’m afraid,” he skews his mouth with an apologetic twist.

“Sounds delightful on all counts,” you assure and bump him with your shoulder.

The evening seems to fly by, and the snowstorm outside somewhat abates as you make a delicious spaghetti bolognese together. Even though it's a tiny kitchen space, you make it work, moving around each other with an almost balletic fluidity as soft music plays from a Bluetooth speaker. There's no Wi-Fi or even much phone signal out here, but he came prepared with songs loaded onto his laptop. You exchange easy chat about mutual friends and what has been happening since you last saw one another a few weeks before.

As you sit down to eat together, the conversation flow continues. It's one of those meals you sop up the sauce from your plate with the warm bread rolls you serve as a side. Lingering in your chairs long after eating is complete, chatting amiably and animatedly about anything, everything and nothing all at once, with a delicious bottle of scotch.

Later, you take turns in the bathroom, cleaning teeth and changing into pyjama bottoms, and then you drift to the living room area. You watch as Benedict pours you both a nightcap into scotch glasses and glance outside to see the storm has picked up again, large clumps of fluffy snow gather in the corner of the window pane; you feel very cosy in this small but perfectly formed little rustic cottage.

“So, how have you been entertaining yourself all alone here for the last four nights?” you inquire, enjoying the smooth, smoky burn of the single malt.

Benedict is now sprawled across the nearby armchair in the most Benedict way, legs akimbo.

“I’ve read two books, and I’ve slept for nine hours every night,” he confesses, taking a sip of his drink and looking at you over the top of his glass.

The room feels like it's getting warmer regardless of the fire; how much is due to the delightful fog of whisky in your veins versus the handsome man across from you is indecipherable.

“Are you not lonely?” you blurt out.

“I live alone in London. What's the difference?” his brow knitting in confusion.

“Alone in the city is very different to alone out here,” you offer, “you can’t be that lonely when you’re only twenty feet from your neighbour through a wall.”

“Hmm, never thought about it like that,” his mien turns thoughtful, scratching his palm on the shadow of stubble on his chin.

You hear the rasp from where you sit, and you almost squeak in surprise as your treacherous mind supplies a vivid snapshot of that stubble teasing the soft skin of your lower belly as he looks up at you with a seductive smirk. You have to shake your head to get rid of it.

“Fear of murder out here is different,” you offer, trying to reroute your thoughts.

“Morbid,” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow with a bemused expression on his face.

“Out here, no one can hear you scream,” you jest, aping the movie line.

He guffaws into his glass. “Sometimes that can be a good thing.”

“Murder?!”

“The ability to scream and not be heard,” he clarifies, his tone markedly more languid than before.

“Painting not going well?” you ask with a chuckle.

“It’s going great, but not what I was referring to,” he argues, and you can’t seem to look away from his mouth all of a sudden.

Damn, how much whisky have you had?

“Had a girl here, Bridgerton?” your venture, a flutter in your chest even as you ask.

“Not until now,” he scoffs, but the intensity in his hazy blue stare causes a riot in your stomach.

You have to look down at your feet before you do something stupid, like climb into his lap and suck on his luscious bottom lip.

“Have you been masturbating loudly?” you quip, still looking down, the thought leaving your lips before you can censor it.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, making you look back at him—big mistake. His eyes look stormy, and you can see a vein in his neck pulsing hard. Like you’ve awoken something.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” you stutter even as your mind floods with images of just that—him stroking his cock and panting, preferably your name.

The atmosphere feels a little too thick, and you briefly curl your lip into your mouth and bite it to give yourself something else to focus on.

“More whisky?” you offer, standing up and changing the subject.

“Sure.” He holds out his glass, and you swear his fingers intentionally slot between yours as he passes it to you.

You use the few moments it takes to refill your drinks, with your back turned, to gather your thoughts and slow your breathing. Having served, you sink onto the couch again but intentionally shift to face him more directly. The alcohol makes you bold and intrigued to know where this might go. He seems to do the same, his feet looping over the armchair's edge and almost touching yours.

“Hey, do you remember that summer when we were, l think, maybe twelve and…”

“Excuse me, point of order,” you butt in, “If you were twelve, I was ten. OK? Continue…” you motion with your hands for him to go on.

“Yes, thanks for reminding me I am older,” he snarks and skews his mouth into an affectionate pout.

“You are welcome, old man,” you tease with a slight smirk.

“Well, anyway… do you remember that summer Colin came home with headlice? And Ant’s answer was to shave all of our heads? Mum almost had a heart attack when she walked in on that. She was forever grateful he’d only gotten around to doing us three boys. She might have died if we’d made it down to Daph or El…” he is laughing heartily around his scotch glass at the memory.

“Remember it?!?” you pipe up, “of course I do! Don't you remember you were trying to push me in front of your sisters in Ant’s barber line? You seemed concerned to ensure I either got rid of or never got them in the first place; I don't remember which,” you laugh, an ache of fond nostalgia in your chest at little Benedict.

“Well, of course, I’ve always looked out for you,” he rolls his eyes as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You smile a genuinely warm smile at him. He's been a wonderful person in your life for as long as you can remember.

“But you’ve always looked out for me too. I remember you brought me a Malteser every day when I was sick with the mumps.”

“I did?!” your voice incredulous; you do not remember doing so.

“Yes, and I've never forgotten it,” he voices sincerely before he takes a draw of his drink. “But then there is so much about you that is unforgettable, isn't there?” he adds, looking at you with an intensity you don't know what to do with.

“Stop it,” you answer bashfully, embarrassed to meet his gaze, staring beyond his shoulder at the snow falling heavily and sticking to the window in fluffy clumps. “And if we’re on this flattery train, what about you? You think I don’t know it’s been you sending me an ‘anonymous’ rose every single Valentine's Day?”

He gapes at you in surprise. “Wait, how did you know it’s from me?’”

“You are the sweetest person I know. It could never be anyone but you, Ben.” You shrug as if the answer is obvious, “and I know it was never out of pity for the times I’m single because you sent one those years I was with Dan, which used to make him so mad, by the way, and when I was with Julian and Paul….”

“Urgh, Dan deserved to be mad,” his tone dismissive, and his face ticked, “I always hated him.”

“You hated everyone I dated, that you met anyway,” you point out, that fact just dawning on your as you speak it.

“But him the most,” he grouses with a sour expression.

“Why?”

“‘Cos he got the closest to marrying you. And I really didn’t want to have to do that whole stand-up in church and object thing. But, by god, I would have.”

His powerful words stun you; you had no idea how deep his feelings on the subject ran.

“Y… you would?” you stutter.

His eyes are so intense now. Even as he takes a swig, he doesn't look away. “He was not worthy of you,” he declares, slow and deliberate, enunciating each word crisply.

“So, who is?” you ask quietly as you take a sip, the question echoing hollowly in your glass.

“I haven't met anyone yet,” he notes with finality.

You had no idea he had judged every single one of your boyfriends and, what’s more, found all of them to be somehow lacking. In hindsight, he was correct, but he never said anything to you at the time, and you can't decide if you want to hold that against him. It might have saved you a lot of heartache and possibly a lot of money.

“Well, if you meet someone that has the Benedict seal of approval, you’ll be sure to send them my way, yeah?” you volley, your voice light.

He breaks into a smile that makes something flutter strong in your ribcage.

“Certainly. I hope you don't mind waiting until possibly your eighties for me to find a worthy suitor,” he jokes.

“Oh god, really?” you groan, “but I can’t not have sex until then,” you lament and kick your legs out as if in a fit of pique.

“Oh, you can have all the sex you want,” he lobbies back, waving his hand dismissively, “you just can’t fall in love,” his eyes twinkle with mischief you’ve always found beguiling.

“Duly noted,” you giggle.

There is a beat where you just look at each other with a shared fondness that makes your heart ache a little—perhaps under different circumstances, he could be the one person worthy of you, as he puts it.

“Well, that is the last log on the fire dying down. I'm not going out in that damn snow to fetch more, so I think the safest thing to do is get under the covers before it gets too cold in here.” he opines.

“Ben, it's 10:30 pm… really?” you whine, “are you really going to bed already, grandpa?” but as you complain, you stifle a yawn.

“Haha, I saw that yawn!” he retorts triumphantly, “and I've got news for you, missy. You are going to bed too.” He grabs both of your hands and easily hauls you off the sofa.

“Why?!?” you scoff but are secretly enthralled when he rounds behind you, his sizable hands landing warm on your hips and propelling you towards the bedroom area.

“Because I’m not having you crawl under the covers later bringing in all that cold air with you, nope, no thank you, not happening,” he chimes over your shoulder.

“So I have to go to bed now?!” you throw your hands up in the air, but he keeps propelling you forward.

“Yup,” he grins, popping the ‘p’ rather obnoxiously.

You capitulate with a weary sigh. “Urghhh, fine. But I will be up reading for a few more hours, so I hope you can sleep with the light on.”

“Fine with me,” he chuckles, herding you towards the bed. “I once slept in your dorm room when your flatmate was having a full-on dance party. I think I can sleep through your reading.”

You collapse onto the bed giggling at that memory, tugging off your shoes and socks but nothing else as he does the same. He pulls the covers back, and you both settle under, still in your fleecy jumpers. Without your socks, however, your feet feel freezing, and with a wicked grin, you cook up a solution.

“Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with your feet?!? Why are they so cold!!” he exclaims as your toes wrap around his exposed ankle.

He twists to try and get away from you, but your feet chase him under the covers, you laughing, him shrieking.

“My hands are cold too,” you chortle, clamping them onto his surprisingly muscular forearm.

He squeals in the most undignified manner, trying to shake your grip, but you just limpet on harder, giggling in that way only tipsy people do.

There is the most delightful resulting tussle, him trying to wrestle your hands and feet away as you try your damndest to keep them on him—the duvet entwining around all of your limbs.

You end up with his weight and warmth partially on top of you, pinning you down, him triumphantly ensnaring your wrists and holding your hands firmly onto the pillow. Your joint heavy breathing and giggles slowly die out as you stare at each other. Your faces have never been so close before. You have no doubt your pupils are as blown as his, and you are certain that he can feel the racing heartbeat at your wrists where he pins you down. His breath is warm on your cheek.

After a few silent moments, his gaze drops to your mouth; he suddenly mutters an apology and starts to pull away.

As if in slow motion, you push up and press your lips to his. You are not thinking at all, just going with your instinct. His lips are warm and plush, and you want more. So much more.

You feel the moment his whole body freezes; he is stunned in the truest sense of the word.

You pull back quickly, sinking into the pillow under him.

“Oh god. I’m so, so sorry,” you whisper, mortified, “please forgive me, I….”

Your words die out as he makes a noise you’ve never heard before. It seems to come from deep inside him, making every hair on your body stand on end.

Then he is on you. Closing the gap between you and capturing your lips with a passion that steals your breath and thoughts. He is kissing so hard, so quickly, you feel lightheaded, pressing you into the mattress under his body. His lips open over yours, his tongue teasing against your lips. He tastes of toothpaste, traces of whiskey and something that is all him, and you flood your underwear; there's also a noise from your throat that doesn’t sound human. He kisses like a storm, hot and electric, and you want to drown in him.

Suddenly his hands are everywhere, and so yours follow suit. It’s a desperate clambering of wanting more. Before you can completely acknowledge it, his hands are questing under your jumper, squeezing your waist, sliding up and over your bra, and tweaking a nipple as his tongue parries with yours.

“Please, please take this off,” he implores passionately into your mouth, tugging at your top. His voice, this close and breathless, is lethal. He is everywhere, surrounding and covering you, and your focus narrows to just him as he sits up to peel off his jumper and t-shirt together, exposing his torso. You freeze. Your arms crossed, halfway through taking off yours.

“Fucking hell,” you exhale before you can stop yourself.

You figured Benedict would be in shape from the feel of his body when you hug, but you haven't seen him shirtless in a long time, and just how much in shape he is, is a revelation. He smiles demurely at your outburst, which makes you want him even more if that were possible.

“Take yours off,” he sounds impatient, and you realise you are still frozen in the same position. You quickly whip yours over your head; his responding noise is your new favourite sound. You feel so grateful you only brought nice underwear on this trip; your lacy bra appears to work for him.

“The knickers match,” you murmur, revelling in the flash in his eye.

You grab his hand and move it to the drawstring on your pyjamas. His long slender fingers pluck the bow tied there; his gaze is on your face the whole time, his kiss-damp lips glowing softly in the low light. You breathe deeply and can’t look away from his captivating face. When the string relents, he winks. Rather than pull them down, his hand quests inside and between your legs.

You gasp and buck up off the pillow as warm, strong fingers press on your clit through the lacy fabric. You know he can feel your heat, just how wet the material is.

“I’ve wanted you for years,” he rumbles low and sinful as his fingers tease a circle over your clit. “Although this seems unreal - I half assume I’m going to wake up in a minute with my hand wrapped around my cock, alone.”

Hearing him say the word cock makes you moan. He licks his lips, and his fingers curl firmer on you.

“Tell me this is real; I’m not dreaming again,” he pleads fervently, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing your air. He is achingly beautiful this close up, his eyes just a thin ring blazing around dark inky pupils staring into your depths. This man has always been able to make you feel seen, but this close, this intense, it feels like he’s peering into your soul.

“You’re not dreaming, Ben,” you reply shakily, trying not to lose all composure at what the word ‘again’ might imply as he gradually tortures you with unhurried, steady movements.

He is watching your face, so closely observing, cataloguing your micro-expressions. His fingers move, spidering along the lace trim before pushing under the fabric this time, sliding down through your trimmed pubic hair and into your naked, soaked folds.

“Ben!” You call out, grasping that strong forearm again, biting your lip and staring into his fiery gaze.

“What do you need?” he questions. It’s the first time anyone has ever asked you that in bed.

“You,” you reply honestly.

“You have me, 110% you have me,” he asserts in a tone that melts something in your chest. “As if you don't know it, you’ve had me for many years,” he admits as his hand slides lower. You cry out as he pushes two fingers just a fraction inside you.

“Fuck, you are on fire,” he exclaims, a shaky exhale across your lips.

“Only for you,” you answer, knowing you’ve never been this turned on before in your life.

He growls, actually growls. And then his lips are back on yours in the most potent kiss yet. You pulse around him and groan into his mouth as he sinks his fingers deeper. When the kiss ends, you glance down your body, seeing the stiff peaks of your nipples poking insistently through the lace and his sinewy forearm buried into your pyjama bottoms.

“Do you like what you see?” his voice a velvety tease.

“I’d like it even more if we were naked,” you respond honestly.

He chuckles at that, and his lips descend, dropping light kisses down your neck as his fingers tease you, surging in and out of your body so achingly slow. His thumb rests on your clit, a little nudge of pressure every time his fingers rock into your channel.

“I need to make you come like I need air,” he confesses, his voice resonant, his warm breath skittering over the sensitive skin of your throat. It’s the hottest thing you've ever heard.

“Please do…” it’s a quiet plea.

You feel the curve of his cheek as he smiles, and the fingers inside you flex.

“I suppose if you’d like to be more naked, then I’d better strip you down first,” he remarks, gently withdrawing his fingers.

Warm hands hook into your underwear, and he scooches away, pulling them down your legs, taking your PJs with them. Suddenly, the image that flashed in your mind earlier becomes a reality, his stubbly chin grazing your belly as he crawls back over you.

“You look amazing,” he sighs over your belly button and leans his forehead on your stomach as he takes a deep breath. “You smell it too.”

He runs his nose and lips over your skin as he surges up and nuzzles your bra, pleading with his eyes for you to remove it as he pulls the straps down over your arms, kissing along the lacy cup edge.

When his lips wrap around one of your nipples, you grab his hair and push up against him, the swoop of sensation in your belly like riding a rollercoaster, the thrill tingling along the back of your scalp.

He moves to lay beside you, and you watch the duvet move as he strips off his bottoms under it. Suddenly there is a thick wave of body heat as he rolls next to you; you feel something sizeable and solid brand your hip.

“Oh, Ben,” slips out on instinct, but he stops your questing hand.

“Not yet,” he shakes his head and smirks at your corresponding pout. “When you have come, preferably screaming, then you can touch my cock. Okay?”

You physically feel the shiver down your spine at that line. Who even says things like that?

He smiles against your temple as he slips his fingers back into you, and you moan at the sensation. He curls his body around you, legs twining around your right one to hold you open. That cock is still rigid on your hip; it feels sizeable and delicious.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing a circle over your clit his fingers stroking in a come hither motion.

“This… exactly what you are doing,” you reply breathlessly, “just please don't stop and maybe go a little harder?” you request timidly.

He smirks and pushes his fingers deeper; his motions get stronger and faster. You close your eyes and nod, licking your lips.

“Yes, that oh god Ben, thattttt,” you stumble as his magical fingers spiral you higher.

When they jab a spot inside, a bloom of pleasure hits you, and your eyes fly open, going wide.

“Oh, that’s the spot,” he preens, redoubling his efforts as you start to pant loudly, clinging to his arm and whining his name—the hot and intense pleasure building remarkably fast.

“That’s it come on,” he encourages, whispering into your hairline right above your ear; his tone is both soothing and achingly filthy.

“Ben… I,” your words morph into needy noises, drunk on the sensations rippling through your body, fanning out from his fingers buried inside you.

“Yes, yes,” he hisses, “you’re close now; I can feel it. Look at me,” he orders.

And you do. Mouth hanging open, squirming on his fingers, feeling something primal washing over you. His eyes burn into yours.

“Don’t fight it,” he warns.

It's almost like permission; you feel something inside you give way. You scream loudly as a tide of orgasm washes over you. Blood rushes in your ears, and you feel his leg bear down over the apex of your thigh, holding your pelvis onto the bed as you cry and convulse. Your body fights his fingers, trying to push them out as your whole channel clenches in strong waves.

After a few moments of deep breaths, you open your eyes, and he kisses your cheek, then your lips.

“Wow… that was…. absolutely amazing,” he confides, kissing more. “And it's a damn good thing no one can hear us here. You scream like a horror movie queen, and I mean that with all the very best compliments.”

You laugh a little abashed and bury your face into his armpit, loving the smell of his deodorant and just him.

“Your turn,” you mumble, deciding to be bold and snake a hand down your side to grab his cock at your hip.

It’s large and thick enough your fingers don’t quite meet when you wrap around it. It makes your insides melt at the thought of how it would feel sliding into you. He makes the neediest huffing noises as you twist onto your side to face him and begin an unhurried rhythm, watching that pretty cock twitch in your hand.

You tease him with a gentle twisting motion, squeezing a little as you reach his head, swiping a thumb over the bead of precum that appears, gently massaging his frenulum as he lets out a faint moan. His hand covers yours, stilling your movements.

“This is so wonderful, but I need you to stop if you want sex. Do you want to… have sex?” he asks so demurely your heart clenches.

“Yes, Ben, please,” you whisper.

“I didn't bring any condoms with me,” he says quietly, “I didn't think I’d meet another soul up here, let alone well…” he trails off, pitching forward, so his lips are warm on your cheek.

“I didn't either, but I'm on the Pill,” you shrug. You've never had first-time sex without a condom, but this man isn't a stranger; he's a lifelong friend, and you trust him with your life.

“I know,” he says softly, kissing your nose.

“Wait, how do you know that?” your brow knitting lightly.

“I know everything about you,” he asserts against your skin, staring into your eyes. “How you take your tea - English breakfast before 2pm, Earl Grey after, both with milk and one sugar. I know how the tip of your tongue here,” he softly trails his nose over the corner of your mouth, “sticks out of your mouth when you type on your laptop. I know you always loop your glasses into the neckline of your top,” a finger tracing gently over the swell of your breast, “and somehow always forget they are there and have a ten-second panic every time.” He laughs gently. “I even know how you prefer plain Hobnobs over chocolate; I have no idea why, and you are so wrong on that, by the way,” he shoots you a devastating lopsided grin. “And I know you are on the Pill because I've watched you take them religiously for years; when I stay at yours, and you make coffee in the morning, it’s the first thing you take before your multivitamin.”

His casual recounting of so many little, human things that make you, you, astounds you. This man knows you better than you know yourself, and you get a weird swooping sensation in your chest. Of elation that you've finally figured it out, he might just be the one - your human, but also a crushing regret you haven't done so sooner. You could have been doing this, intimately entwined with this wonderful, thoughtful, sensitive, handsome man, for so many years.

Not wanting to waste any more opportunity and so very desperate to have him inside you, you use all your strength to roll him onto his back and climb on top. Surprised and aroused, he looks up at you devotedly, his pupils blown wide.

Silently and without breaking eye contact, you reach between your bodies, line up his weeping beautiful cock, and sink onto him without another thought. The needy noise he makes is like poetry.

He feels perfect, and you close your eyes to revel in being stretched around him, a solid hot presence filling you up and holding you so open. Just the perfect length and girth for you, almost like his cock was made for you.

Warm hands grasp your hips, and your eyes fly open and look down at him, his expression pleading with you to move. Gradually you rise up, then drop down just once, savouring the sensations as he drags against your walls.

“You feel perfect,” he groans “please….”

You know what he is asking, begging for - more. Something in you wants to draw this out, go so achingly slow both of you get mindless. Luxuriate in this carnal, sensual meeting.

“Talk to me,” you implore, starting a leisurely pace.

“What about?” you watch him glance down between your bodies, watching his cock disappear into you as you sink down.

“Talk to me, Ben,” you repeat but pointedly, grabbing his chin to look at you and raising an eyebrow.

There's a lightbulb of understanding behind his eyes, and that killer crooked smile spreads across his face.

“You like my voice, don't you?” he says, pitched low, and you bite your lip, grabbing his hands as leverage for your movements.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, gasping as the pleasure grows between your legs just as he says those few words.

“I know,” he smirks, “I’ve known for years.”

You look at him in surprise. “Wait, how?” you breathe, disbelieving.

He grabs your shoulders and pulls you down on top of him: so much heat and warm flesh.

“I have noticed your pupils dilate every time I drop my voice just like this,” he murmurs low and sinful into your ear. “The temptation to say so many dirty things has been so strong. God, I love it when you are aroused, and you think you can hide it. I knew you were getting wet; it would take all my willpower not to grab and kiss you senselessly. Especially those days when you are only in a little floaty skirt, I could actually smell it. Delicious and sweet and so fucking sexy. That little squirm you would do. How you move your body is fucking sinful. And now I get to enjoy it. You riding me like this. Fuck, if this isn't every fantasy I've ever had coming true.”

By the time his filthy soliloquy is done, you are panting hard, not from the exertion as you rock on him but the way he has pushed you so close to orgasm with so little effort - just his voice and words.

“Ben,” you shudder, “I….” words fail as you feel your body flush.

“I can feel you are fluttering. Are you going to come so soon?” he exhales, impressed. “Oh god, please, please do it,” he urges. “I need to feel it.”

You sit up and reach down to touch your clit, and he swears at the sight. You are tipping over the edge, stilling your movement as you sit with him at your hilt and clench around him. He feels impossibly huge inside you, twitching and pulsing.

“Fuckkkkkkkk,” he groans long and loud, clenching his teeth. You know he is also fighting the urge to come, wanting this to last much longer.

Greedy for more, for another stronger climax, you go to move again, but he stops you.

“Please don't move, not yet,” he pleads, grabbing your hips and quelling your movement. “I need… a few moments, please.”

You smile down at him indulgently and link your hands again, bringing the back of his hand to your mouth and kissing it delicately. Then to be a tease, you envelop his middle finger in your mouth, running your tongue over it, tasting his tangy skin. He growls as you add his pointer finger and suck hard, staring down at him heatedly.

“This isn't really helping,” he warns reluctantly with a playful pout.

You let his fingers slip out of your mouth and guide his hand to your breasts, pressing his now-damp fingers against your nipple. He enthusiastically grips your flesh, and you throw your head back and moan as he teases your sensitive buds, pinching them between his fingertips. You gyrate your hips, dragging his tip against your cervix.

There is another growl, and suddenly you are tipped over onto the mattress, him still buried inside you. He grabs your legs and loops his arms under them, pulling your body so open under him.

“Hold onto me… twine your arms around me,” he instructs.

You do, fingers digging into his smooth, muscular torso. Panting in anticipation; at the feel of him holding you down, his pelvis crushed against your engorged clit.

He begins to move, and you can't help but make noises; he just overwhelms all your senses. His kisses, his skin, his arms, your legs held high and wide. He is almost delicate in his motion, but you can tell he is holding back.

“Don't be too gentle, Ben,” you beg, bringing one hand up to cup his jaw and running your thumb over his bottom lip. “Please just fuck me.”

His mouth captures your thumb, and you gasp as he spears into you hard. You hiss your approval as he crowds over you to kiss you fiercely. Then everything is a haze as your mind switches off, and you are rooted in your body, chasing sensation as he takes you hard. He feels so hot and rigid, pounding into you as you lay under him, pinned and almost helpless to this onslaught but wanting nothing more than being right where you are. For a first time together, it’s not awkward or timid; it's exciting and mindblowing but somehow still safe, knowing you can trust him with everything, including your body.

Between kisses, there are whispered encouragements against lips and hands grasping so tight to each other as movements become more frantic and fast. He is hitting your clit on each stroke and panting, so present in the moment, eyes boring into yours. You know he is so close, hanging by a thread when he screws his eyes shut and pleads with you to come with him. A few more strokes and it is happening, your orgasm hitting you hard and breaking over your body in waves, fanning out from your core as you clench around him, making your muscles spasm and your toes curl. You feel him coming hard, too, a warm bloom inside you as he jerks a few heavy thrusts, then stills, mouth open over yours and huffing gulps of air as he twitches.

After a few moments of deep breaths and slumped limbs, he pulls his face up to kiss you tenderly.

“Wow,” he breathes, and you giggle and nod your head. “Why haven't we been doing that for the last god knows how many years?” he shakes his head, his voice a little ragged and rough-edged.

“I don't know, but we should be doing a lot more of it,” you respond brightly, “make up for lost time?”

He laughs warmly and agrees, taking his weight off you and rolling and rearranging your bodies so you are both on your sides, facing each other, hands laced together, noses touching. And that is how you fall asleep.

—

You awaken to dazzling sunlight streaming in, reflecting off all the snow. You wince against the brightness and clamp your eyes shut, burrowing back into Benedict. You feel surrounded, in the best sense of the word. He is a warm solid presence behind your back, an arm slung around the dip of your waist, a hand curled around your breast, legs entangled, downy hair tickling your calves. And best of all, a hard cock nestles the back of your thighs. You flex your hips and shuffle until his tip is poised right at your entrance. He stirs, and there is a hot exhale on the back of your neck.

“Get inside me, please,” you petition quietly, voice scratchy from sleep.

Wordlessly, he rolls his hips, surging into your body in one swift stroke. You moan so loudly that he huffs a laugh, then stills, buried inside you.

“Now go back to sleep,” he grumbles affectionately, arm pulling you into him tighter, your whole body flush to his, curling his legs up so you are almost in the fetal position.

“Like this?!” your tone incredulous, as his fingernails trace an idle ellipsis around your areola.

“Mmm hmmm,” his hum vibrates into your spine.

“Bennnn…” you protest, clenching around him, so he groans deeply.

“I promise to fuck you so hard you forget your name… later, if you let me sleep just a little more,” he proposes, nuzzling your hair.

What a lovely thought. You lay still in his arms for a few minutes, but his cock holding you open is far too distracting.

“Bennn…” you try again.

“Shhhhh…” he reacts, but you can tell he's not sleepy anymore; there is a smile on the nape of your neck.

“You feel too good; I can’t sleep,” you whine, slightly petulant.

“You’re not even trying,” he chuckles richly.

“You can't do this to me,” you wheedle, your breath hitching triumphantly as he tilts his pelvis and slips a fraction deeper.

“If I fuck you right now, will you stop complaining?” his tone laced with amusement.

“Hmmm, maybe,” you shoot back, twisting to glance at him over your shoulder, seeing his eyes dancing with mirth.

Your lips meet, and it's a breathy passionate kiss, all open mouths and tongues, teasing each other and fighting for dominance.

As your mouths dance, he starts to move at a languid pace, just rocking into your body gently, and it’s the best wake-up you have ever had. You cover his hand on your breast, and he intuits what you are asking, squeezing the swell, your nipple snagged between his middle and pointer finger. You break the kiss, and his teeth gently skim the cord on your neck as he speeds up a little.

“Will you wake me up like this every day, please?” you sigh, not thinking about the implications of your words, just drunk on the sensation.

“Happily,” he rumbles and spears a little stronger, making you call out his name.

“The sound I really want to wake up to though….” his voice teasing and low. “is this one…” and his hand slips from your breast to between your legs.

You moan and writhe in his strong hold, little sparks of pleasure firing where he touches.

“That’s it, that’s the sound,” he encourages as you both move together in sync.

It’s a wonderfully sensual experience, growing in intensity until he rolls you over onto your front, still inside you, fucking into you from behind, covering your entire body with his. His hand is trapped between your body and the mattress while teasing your clit.

“Oh god, Ben,” you cry as he seems to slide deeper than ever, your thigh trapped shut together, his legs bracketing yours, using all his effort to drive into you, the tone shifting from languid to vigorous. You’ve never been taken in this position before, and at this angle, he is hitting all the right spots inside you to make your eyes roll back and bite the pillow.

It hurtles you fast, beginning to pant raggedly, and you urge him on, asking for more and harder, and he obliges, thrusting so strong your whole body rolls and the bed squeaks loudly in protest. Your voice becomes one long moaning sound; you are pushing back onto his cock as much as possible, a chorus of please don't stop as he drives you fast towards a climax. His body is bowed, breathing hot puffs of air across your upper back, with an occasional kiss, his lips soft and wet.

He holds you on a precipice for a moment; you crane to look back at his face pleadingly; his expression is wild and so gorgeous it catches your breath.

“You are magnificent,” he rasps against your skin.

Then the hand not on your clit suddenly spanks your butt cheek while his teeth sink into the top of your trapezius muscle, pushing you over the edge, calling his name as you pulsate hard around him. Him grunting and thrusting deeper, fighting your clenching muscles. Then he stills, and every muscle tenses as he empties into your body, almost shaking from the intensity.

He collapses onto your back, breathing in wracked sounds.

“Fucking hell,” you both say almost in unison, then giggle at your matching assessment of the experience.

He pulls out of you reluctantly and flops down onto the mattress to your left, wrapping an arm around you and manoeuvring so are the little spoon once again.

“That was intense,” he voices, and you make a noise of agreement, lacing your fingers with his and holding your joined hands up, watching his fingers sink between yours and curve over, his fingertips resting on your palm.

“We are awesome at sex,” you opine. Benedict chuckles at that, hooking his chin over your shoulder. “And you know what that means?”

“What?” his tone lilting.

“We just have to keep doing it all the time,” you observe with a mock, burdened sigh.

“What a terrible hardship for us,” he concurs with an ironic laugh, nuzzling your neck with a grin on his face. __

Half an hour later, you have showered together - which proved almost as distracting as morning sex until the hot water tank ran out, and you jumped out squealing as the water turned ice cold - and are now leisurely making brunch. You both only wear towelling robes you stole from your Glasgow hotel room, the fireplace roaring again. You agree to go for a walk in the snow later, neither of you mentioning booking your flight home.

“Wait, why is this sofa so bloody uncomfortable” you bemoan, taking a sip of coffee and flicking idly through a book you took from a shelf. “I don't remember it being this bad last night,” you ponder aloud.

“Well, you had had a couple of whiskeys by then,” Benedict points out as he cooks an amazing-smelling breakfast a few feet away in the kitchenette.

“True, but honestly, what is going on with it?” you grumble, putting the book aside, not yet sufficiently caffeinated.

“Sofa beds tend not to be comfortable. As either a sofa or a bed,” he rattles out, flipping a slice of bacon in the pan.

You grind to a halt in your efforts to get comfy.

“Sofa bed…?” You echo out loud.

He suddenly freezes and realises what he has admitted.

“Benedict bloody Bridgerton!!” you exclaim loudly, standing up, “did you trick me into sharing your bed?!?”

He turns around slowly, knowing he is foiled and pulls a sheepish face.

“Yeahhhh, a lil bit…” he admits as you gape at him, attempting his most winning remorseful smile. “But, in my defence…” he adds, waving the spatula, “you are the one who kissed me first. I just stacked the deck; you drew the first card.”

He expertly swerves the cushion you throw at him before flicking off the stove and pushing aside the pan.

“Right…” he charges at you as you squeal.

He corners you with ease in the compact space and throws you over his shoulder.

“We are using this stupid sofa bed right now,” he instructs and, rather attractively, casually flicks a handle on the side with his foot to open it. He practically throws you onto the (admitted thin, rather uncomfortable) bed and tugs open your robe, snaking his way down your body and throwing your legs over his shoulder, shooting you a molten hot gaze from between your thighs.

You have no arguments with this development. None whatsoever.

—

You return to that tiny cottage every year for that same week as a ritual—a little private anniversary. Sometimes you stay through New Year, just the two of you ringing in the entire festive season.

He buys it for you as a wedding gift, and you cry at the sentimentality of the man buying you the place you first got together. (One thing you do early on - buy a new, comfortable sofa.)

It becomes a haven for your lives together, even when you have to bring cots and camp beds for your children, all sleeping communally in that one room. (You don’t tell them, but all of your children are named after characters in an obscure old book he finds hidden in the rafters when you are renovating while pregnant with your firstborn.)

Nothing brings you more joy than when you can escape to that little cottage in the Highlands. You never tell anyone besides your children where it is—it’s your escape, your sanctuary. The “somewhere only we know,” as Benedict always called it.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld

[solinadarvenel-library]

Revelation

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (Modern AU).

Summary: Modern AU. It's a revelation what a Bridgerton mouth and hands can achieve...

Warnngs: 18+ smut, minors DNI, fingering, oral sex (m to f), d/s undertones, dirty talk.

Word Count: 3.9 k

Author's Note: Unbetaed. This is a request fill for the talented @broooookiecrisp from this ask (essentially Benedict gives reader their first orgasm not from their own hand). Thank you to two other talents @eleanor-bradstreet for the title and @bridgertontess for the edit image above, which screams modern menace Benedict.

Your housewarming party is in full swing when he walks in, wine bottle in hand—the first man you ever fancied, aged just seven years old to his ten. Almost twenty years later, there’s still a slight flutter in your chest when he appears. Benedict Bridgerton. Rich, handsome, sweet, funny, artistic, always surrounded by a bevvy of suitors of all genders—his natural ease and open personality just attracts everyone, like bees to pollen. He sees you and smiles that killer smile, embracing you quickly and handing you the bottle with genuine warmth. One day, when he finds his special person, you know deep down you will always be a little jealous of them, that they get to be in his orbit every day. 

As the evening rolls on, you find yourself in the garden, taking some fresh air and helping your sister recover from her own heavy-handed mixed drinks. In contrast, you've only had one glass of wine - yes, the one Benedict bought; he has impeccable taste - wanting to be a responsible party host. She sits next to you on your cheap, foldaway beach chairs on the otherwise empty patio.

“Found anyone you want to fuck?” she teases with her trademark bluntness.

A hollow laugh echoes into your glass. “As if.”

“Come on,” she needles, “it’s been MONTHS since your last breakup. Don’t you miss having someone else be responsible for your orgasms?” 

“Hah! Chance would be a fine thing,” you scoff.

“Wait, are you… wait,” she is staring at you open-mouthed, “are you telling me no one has made you come? Like ever?”

You blush and avert your eyes, picking imaginary lint from your party dress. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She looks astonished. “Have you never…?” she whispers.

“Oh, I can get there myself. But err, no one else has put in the requisite effort, to be honest,” you shrug, being truthful. You doubt she will remember this conversation when she sobers up.

“But you’re twenty fucking six years old,” she emphasises, “someone else needs to give you an orgasm. Bloody hell, you were with Phil for two bloody years, and he never…?”

You shake your head. “I mean, he tried, but I guess maybe... I dunno. Maybe it’s just not something I can do via someone else?” you posit.

“Bullshit,” she opines loudly.

And silently, unseen by either of you, someone else agrees with her.

—

You wander back into the party, and not long after, a hand wraps around your forearm.

“Got a moment?” Benedict asks.

“For you, Bridgerton, always,” you grin.

He smiles sweetly, and you pretend not to notice your heartbeat spike as he laces his hand with yours and draws you upstairs, away from the noise and hubbub. Before you know it, he leads you into your bedroom and softly closes the door.

“I have another gift I want to give you,” his voice low.

“More delicious fancy wine? Yes, please,” you jest.

The hand in yours squeezes, and he brings you to sit next to him on your bed.

“Not exactly; this one is more intangible. Long overdue. But by god, you deserve it,” he says cryptically.

You frown at him. “Ben, stop talking in riddles, please.”

“You need to orgasm, y/n,” he exhales.

“Oh… I…” your world grins to a halt, a hundred thoughts tumbling in your mind. “You were eavesdropping?!?” Well, it seems like your brain wants to go with indignancy first. Interesting.

“Not exactly,” he squirms, “I was outside trying not to smoke. Force of habit. I overheard you talking.”

“So that’s a yes.” 

“Ok, fine, yes, I was eavesdropping. But more to the point, you’ve never had an orgasm?” he looks utterly mind boggled as if he just can't compute the fact.

“You need to improve your snooping skills. I said no one ELSE has given me an orgasm; I can do it just fine by myself, thank-you-very-much,” you sniff, crossing your arms.

He barks a laugh. “Alright, I stand corrected. But still. Fucking hell, y/n. Are you serious?”

“Don’t laugh at me, Bridgerton,” you warn, the eggshell of your ego feeling more dented and cracked with every disbelieving noise he makes.

“I’m not laughing, believe me,” a hand over his heart to indicate his sincerity, “I’m indignant on your behalf.”

“Well, I’ll give you the numbers of all my exes. You can phone them and give them a piece of your mind if you want,” you shrug. 

“I’m half inclined to frankly,” he admits, “but afterwards.”

“After what?” you frown.

“I give you a bloody orgasm, y/n,” he sighs as if almost irritated with your obtuseness.

You splutter in the most undignified manner. He must be joking. 

“Ha bloody ha,” you deadpan after you recover.

A finger curls under your jaw and moves your head to see him. “I’m serious,” he murmurs purposefully. Those eyes, dear god, those eyes will be the death of you if you let them.

“Stop…” you stutter, “just don’t. I don’t want your pity.” You can’t disguise the raw edge in your voice as you wrench yourself from his grip.

His face morphs into one of surprise and then a frown. “That's not what this is,” he insists quietly.

“Sure seems like it,” you utter with an edge of bitterness that tastes metallic on your tongue.

“Anything that would change your mind on that?” 

You just shrug wordlessly, a melancholic mood settling into your edges. There is something so knawing that it’s him, your first crush, being the one to pick at the scab of your ego.

There is a moment of silence between you where you refuse to peek at him, staring at the hem of your dress. Instead of getting up and leaving as you expect, he shuffles back on the bed and twists towards you.

“Look at me, please,” his tone is mild but has an undercurrent of something intangible.

You lift your chin to meet his soft, relaxed gaze but twist your lips a touch defiantly.

“There is only one thing about you I find unattractive,” he begins, and your brow knits that he’s choosing to dig the knife in a bit more, “and that is when you don’t believe in yourself enough. You are a confident, successful woman with a killer career who is fearless with everything… except asking for your own needs to be met. You should expect orgasms from those you allow into your bed. So don’t you dare think I want to meet your needs out of pity. I don’t pity you. I admire you. And I want to do this. In fact, I think I need to do this.”

His little speech leaves you mute. That he has managed to skewer your personality with pinpoint accuracy, both your flaws and strengths, is confounding. And what’s worse is, he’s right. Why do you demand such high standards of yourself but allow others, especially intimate partners, to disappoint?

He is watching your face closely as you take onboard everything he said and everything he implied. He intuits when you consent, or maybe he sees it written across your face because an almost predatory smile crawls over his features.

“Take off your knickers,” he instructs, his tone low and slow, something almost edged with danger in the way he says it, your pulse instantly galloping.

By god, you don’t like being told what to do by anyone, anytime… but this? This is blisteringly hot. Desire whiplashes low in your gut. And yet, something in you rebels. Wants to play with fire, see what he will do if you resist.

“Make me,” you whisper.

He emits a noise you have never heard from him before in all your years of knowing him. It's deep and animalistic, and every hair on your body stands on end. Next thing you know, you are tilted over and pinned onto your bed, his hands grabbing your wrists, your head almost hanging off the end of the bed. 

“You asked for this,” he warns, the tone achingly seductive and just a touch authoritative.

His lips descend, slanting over yours and teasing with expertise. Every fibre is effervescent, awakened—something hot washing over your body from your scalp to your toes. The sudden throb between your legs is a wet, viscous ache. 

He’s not dilatory either, strong fingers delving under your dress. Teasing kisses as he spiders fingertips into your underwear. You are virtually quivering before he even touches your clit.

“Ben,” you stutter into his mouth at the first brush of his fingers, your hips canting up off the bed. You have no idea what is possessing you, but you feel almost under a spell.

“Stay down and stay quiet,” he commands, a solid quad muscle covering your thigh. “Put your hands behind your head, and don’t move them.” 

You do as you’re told without thinking, finding yourself so aroused by the bossiness.

“Fuck, you are totally soaking. Is that all for me?” the smug tone in his voice should be a turn-off. It's the exact opposite; it's like he knows before you do what will turn you into putty. 

His kiss is plundering as he teases your bud unhurriedly, with only his middle finger. The room seems too hot, your dress too tight, and he is engulfing all your senses. It's his scent that gets you the most; it actually makes your mouth water even as he kisses you. You probably should be ashamed of everything your body is doing - overheating, salivating, honeying his fingers - but you don't even have the presence of mind to think about it. 

As he pulls away, he shushes when you go to open your mouth, the finger of his other hand resting across your tingling lips in a missive to keep quiet.

“You don't want someone to hear us and interrupt us, do you?” his voice silky.

He has an excellent point there. You would prefer no one disturbs anything he is doing or planning to do to you. You shake your head slightly, and he smirks at you.

“Good girl.”

Oh, fucking hell.

Add that to the list of things you had no idea would send you at breakneck speed to an almost painful level of arousal. Yet still, just that one finger strokes slowly over your clit, almost in time with the beat of the mellow music leaking under the doorway from the party below.

“More, Ben, please,” you plead in a whisper.

“Hmm, not yet,” he opines, and his lips land on your throat, “don't be in such a hurry.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s evident as he sucks on the sensitive skin there that he is taking complete control of your body, pleasure, and orgasm, and somehow it’s everything you need that you’ve never thought to ask of anyone.

When his finger is suddenly gone, you fight the impulse to whine. But then his hands are at your hips, tugging down your underwear, drawing them down your legs and flinging them across the room, and you decide that is more than acceptable.

“Next time I tell you to take off your knickers, and you defy me, I’m ripping them,” he lectures, and there is so much to unpack there. Mostly it’s the words ‘next time’ echoing around your skull.

All you do is nod, dumbfounded, rapidly sinking into a space where you are just reactive, your brain quieting for once, your body and sensation taking over, instinctual and primal. You watch, biting your lip, as Benedict snakes down your body, gathering your dress up over your belly and throwing your knees over his shoulders.

“Now, let's prove you wrong, shall we?” he smirks, shooting you a heated look as your thighs frame his handsome face.

He turns his head and kisses up the inside of your thigh to your knee. Using his tongue to suck your flesh into his mouth, slowly working his way back down towards your centre, little fires erupting where he drags his mouth. Just as he gets so close you can feel his breath on your clit, and you tense in anticipation, he skips and starts at your other knee, working his way back down with teasing suckling motion, almost biting the skin of your inner thighs as he goes. Your skin feels tingly everywhere his lips have touched, the unhurried pace taking you by surprise. He was so quick to get between your legs you figured it would all be brief. But no, he is taking his time, luxuriating in the tease.

“Ben….” his name a soft exhale over your lips, almost unconscious, a reflex. The curl of his cheeks against your skin as he smiles in response is intoxicating. Your hands itch to move from behind your head, to grab him and push his face where you want him the most.

His breath is hot on your throbbing clit before he slowly buries his face into your body, opening your folds with his tongue and making a long heavy swipe up through your soaked channel to your clit, moaning as he does so. No one has been this engaged with your body before; it’s always been tentative, making you a little on edge that perhaps their enjoyment was not there. You are left in no doubt how much Benedict enjoys it, his tongue lapping up your taste decadently, engaging his whole face, chin pressing on your entrance as he ploughs his tongue in unhurriedly undulating waves over your clit, knowing precisely where to hit.

“Oh my g….” your words dying off as strong arms wrap around your hips, hands grasp your inner thighs and force them obscenely wide. 

He is feasting on your body, giving long, soft strokes with the flat of his tongue, gently parting your labia, sucking them softly into his searing mouth, tugging down just a little, so you sense the pull around your clit.  Spreading his mouth wide over your clit hood and sucking and swirling until you feel something so intense you want to clamp your thighs hard around his ears, but he senses the motion, and his arms band harder, keeping you open to his onslaught.

“Mmmm,” he hums, and it vibrates all the way inside you, up into your belly. “Now we are getting somewhere; your little clit is all erect now,” he rumbles, and you feel yourself blushing at his words; something indeed is swollen and distended under his ministrations. He wetly swirls his tongue under the hood, and there is a sudden stab of something mind-bending. 

“There it is.”

“Please, Ben, oh god, please, please,” you squeak, practically begging him. No one has done this to you, taken command in such a self-assured but vigorous way. You've also never begged for anything before.

“I know, I know,” he assures, the fingertips of one hand stretching upwards to caress the soft skin of your belly, “it’s coming, I promise, just a little while longer.”

He moves lower to tease your pussy with his tongue, just nudging the bridge of his nose rhythmically against your pulsing clit. Not quite enough to build more sensation, just enough to keep you strung out on a high where your whole body is quaking, overwrought and sensitive—your skin prickling hot.

You whine his name, disobeying his instruction and sliding a hand into his hair and gripping the chestnut thatch, pulling him back up slightly, and he chuckles, moving back to your clit, his tongue unfurling in a rolling wave.

“Okay, I get the hint,” he laughs deeply, and one arm unfurls from around your thigh, a finger tracing a line around your opening. “And put your hand back where it belongs, you cheeky minx.” You do so immediately.

There is an almost obscene squelching sound as he buries two fingers into you, followed by your cry at the slender but deep invasion. 

“Fucking hell….” you can’t help the curse slipping unbidden from your lips, something about the moment being as transcendent as it is purely carnal.

You can feel the swell of his knuckles pressing on your walls, and it feels so wonderful you squeeze onto his fingers on instinct. His responding growl makes your blood race.

“Every person you’ve ever been with is a fool,” he declares heatedly. “How could they not want to make this delightful little cunt come over and over? My god, your grip, the heat, the taste. I could get lost in you for days,” his voice is decadent like dark chocolate, and again your cheeks heat at his unabashed turn of phrase.

He surges up over your body, fingers still inside you, and his mouth lands on yours, your own taste so strong on his lips. That talented tongue sparring with yours as the fingers pulse gently, hitting a spot you have never reached before. You break the kiss to moan and stare at him wide-eyed and panting quietly. 

“You haven’t found this before, have you?” he guesses correctly, and you shake your head, unable to form words.

“Oh, my darling girl,” he rumbles possessively, “it’s criminal how badly you have been treated. I feel like I’m fingering a virgin, and by god, I wish I had been your first. I feel an overwhelming need to show you everything you’ve been missing out on.”

“Please,” you gasp, and it’s a petition for everything.

He huffs an alluring laugh over your cheek and kisses down your neck—a warm slide of lips and tongue until he is at the top of your dress. The hand not inside you yanks down the material, and suddenly your nipple is sucked hard into his wet hot mouth. You cry his name, uncaring if anyone hears you. Just strung out on the sensation of his fingers massaging inside your pussy, his mouth suckling on your nipple as your neglected engorged clit pulsates so strong, syncopated with your heartbeat. You know, without a shadow of a doubt, this is some plot to systemically destroy you. Make you mindless with need. Desperate for some relief, you move one hand from behind your head and slide it between your legs.

“Nuh-uh,” a warm solid hand encircles your wrist and pulls it away before you can make contact, manhandling your arm back to where it was. “Do I have to tie your hands above your damn head?” He questions fiercely, biting your nipple lightly and making you keen, but his eyes are sparkling with mirth as he meets your gaze, looking up from your chest.

You fold your lips into your mouth, showing remorse, and he chuckles richly.

“Good girl. Now, why are you in such a rush? Do you have any idea how much better it is if you just go slow? Let your body build up to something. I will edge you all night if you keep being so damn unruly.” It’s the sexiest reprimand you’ve ever been given, and you can’t decide if that sounds like utter torture or the best thing ever. Probably both.

Something approaching triumph surges in your veins as he slinks down your body again, shooting you a devastating crooked smile as he settles between your legs. He sucks your thrumming clit hard into his mouth, brushing the edge of his teeth over the nub, and you have to rapidly grab a pillow to muffle the holler you make. It's loud and gutsy from somewhere deep inside your belly. The tension as he teased you elsewhere is now laser-focused on where he consumes you, drinking from you, dragging the crudest sensations and noises from your core. Something about it seems so feral on both your parts.

All of his efforts and all of your attention narrow to the fingers inside you, stroking and massaging and his sinful mouth wreaking the most beautiful havoc. Rapidly spiralling you higher, your entire being trembling as you burble nonsense, feeling fit to burst. Almost scared of letting go of the tight hold you have over this swell of something almost alarming inside you.

“Come on, my good, darling girl, show me what you can do when you lose control,” he encourages, and you stop fighting. Stop fighting the tide crashing over you, and relax into the wave of pleasure engulfing your every sense. 

Your pussy convulses forcefully, clamping his fingers, attempting to push them out. Wetness gushing out of you, flooding against his face. An invisible cord holding every muscle in your body taut snaps, and you feel a resulting pulse of euphoria chase into every cell and synapse. Everything sounds so far away as you float somewhere that is both rooted deep within and far from your body. Your very being is seemingly fracturing and reassembling.

Gradually you return to the room. As you lay there, breathless and staring at your still somewhat unfamiliar bedroom ceiling, you catalogue that it's not the only thing foreign to you. This bone-deep sated feeling you’ve never experienced before makes you both invigorated and languid, blotting the sharp edges of your conscience. You want to curl up and rest, but simultaneously the urge to clamber on top of him and demand an encore performance. He has moved at some point, so he now lies next to you on the bed. Your head lolls to the side, and you realise he is observing you with a wry smile. Something in his countenance has changed; it's not the authoritarian he was while he was pleasuring you; it's the charming benign Ben you’ve always known, his hazy blue eyes soft with understanding.

“That was….” you can't even form a sentence, just catch your swollen, flushed lips between your teeth and mime an explosion around your head.

He giggles and delicately trails a finger over your dress, sweetly rearranging your neckline to its original position.

“If there's one thing I know, it’s that smart, capable women who run everything in their lives so fucking well sometimes want to switch their brain off and be told what to do. Be allowed a break from being in charge, just until that orgasm hits. I took an educated guess,” he shrugs modestly with a winning smile.

Suddenly everything about what transpired makes total sense. He knew you would never ask for what happened, but by god, you needed it, craved it, and never even knew it. That he could intuit your needs says so much about him, about what he knows of you; it gives you a warm bloom in your chest that feels dangerously close to something profound and startling. That seems like a dangerous path to let your thoughts wander down, and besides, a delicious man is lying right next to you who has given you so much, yet you have offered nothing in return. You decide every cell in your being wants to rectify that immediately.

“What about you…?” you run a hand down his shirt, enjoying the contours under it, allowing your hand to splay lightly over the tantalisingly prominent bulge in his well-fitted expensive-looking jeans.

“This wasn't about me; this was about a gift for you,” he smiles, grabbing your hand away from his cock and kissing your knuckles in a romantic gesture. “I’ll be fine; I just need to perhaps not be in your company for a few minutes,” he quips flatteringly.

“I could help, you know?” you offer softly, twisting more towards him.

“Really, it's not necessary. Go enjoy your party,” he responds, but you can see his resolve wavering as you raise an eyebrow and climb on top of him. 

“Are you very sure about that, Mr Bridgerton?” you query with an intentionally husky tone.

His face is a picture, and his groan is hungry as you deliberately press your naked pelvis over the swell of denim and rock back and forth, the harsh seam of his fly catching your clit and igniting your lust again. The tiny ‘no’ he exhales is music to your ears—so many revelations in one evening.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet

[solinadarvenel-library]

I need s1 spencer to ramble to me about rubiks cubes or something like that while I dry hump him

please i love this lol.

nsfw | mdni | spencer reid x reader | dry humping

the night had started off as normal. spencer had invited you over to his place for a small movie date where the two of you were watching some french film based in world war two. spencer had been whispering in your ear all night with translations and truth be told, it was making you hot and bothered.

it was no surprise when you suddenly kissed spencer, forgetting about the movie when you crawled into his lap to kiss him deeply. he had been shocked at first but then just allowed it to happen once his hands met your hips as he kissed you back.

you could feel his hard-on through your leggings and his trousers as you kissed him, causing you to grind your hips slowly against his bulge. spencer pulled away from the kiss to look at you as he let out a small whine from the friction.

“talk to me,” you breathed out, still moving your hips slowly against spencer’s.

“a-about what?” he asked hoarsely, staring up at you.

“anything. just-i want to hear you talk,” you licked your lips.

spencer took a deep but shaky breath, trying to think of something. but it was hard, in more ways than one, when a pretty girl was on his lap grinding against his clothed cock. he glanced around the living room, seeing a rubix cube displayed on the mantle. and so, he began to speak. “d-did you know that the rubix cube was invented in 1974 by a hungarian teacher who originally called it the magic cube?”

you paused for a moment due to the weird topic but didn’t say anything about it as you continued your movements. you leaned down to kiss spencer’s jawline as you ground your hips a bit faster, causing your breath to hitch due to the friction against your clit. “keep going,” you murmured against his skin.

the change in pace also caused spencer to moan as he held onto your hips and bucked his hips against yours. i-it was originally made for educational purposes,” he swallowed and stopped to whine when you kissed the sweet spot on his neck, still moving your hips against his clothed cock. “t-to improve problem-solving, spatial awareness, a-and-“ his voice cracked when you moved your hips harder against his. “memory.”

the whole situation was sexy. the way you moved your hips against spencer’s and the way his voice hitched every time you moved particularly hard. it hadn’t taken long until spencer completely forgot what he was saying when he began meeting your movements with his own, chasing his own release. “oh fuck,” he whined, holding your hips tightly. “i-i’m gonna cum,” he whimpered out as he tensed, holding you firmly against his cock.

you continued to move your hips, feeling your own orgasm nearing. “me too,” you whispered-moan. the pressure against your clit was so good. and with a few more movements of your hips, the two of you came with moans of one another’s names.

when you both were finished, the living room was filled with heavy breathing and the sounds of the long forgotten french film that played on the television. spencer was looking at you while you looked at him. and neither of you could contain the small giggles that escaped your lips.

“should we go to the bedroom?” spencer breathed out, smiling at you.

you smiled back, nodding your head. “yes, please.”

and it was safe to say that your date night with spencer was quite successful.

[solinadarvenel-library]

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

[solinadarvenel-library]

Imagine

18+ Minors dni

Bucky x f reader 

A/N: self indulging here with how we ended up down this rabbit hole. A lil cocky Bucky. 

Warnings: Dirty talking, a little smut, illusions to smut, swearing

The TikTok that started it all: https://www.tiktok.com/@hungrymathi/video/6948835965326707973?_t=8Tqbk2XuzbB&_r=1

Word count: 1.2k

You looked around you, sighing contently seeing no one else in the shared living room. You plopped down onto the large couch, snuggling into the cushions, pulling your phone out.

Tumblr.

Wattpad.

AO3.

The holy trinity; your latest guilty pleasure and favourite place to be. It all started with a tiktok.

Avengers walking in on you naked

You snickered at the accuracy of how each person would react; Tony, Steve, Sam, Peter but then the next avenger made your stomach clench. The one and only James Buchanan Barnes. The other avengers would run away or sneak a little glance. Bucky on the other hand, flicks his eyes over your body, licking his lips before walking in and shutting the door behind him. Sure, it was someone else pretending to be Bucky but that did it for you, you had entered a very interesting rabbit hole. You let curiosity get the best of you, searching his name and finding hundreds of TikToks. Some were some rather spicy edits of him working out or pictures of him shirtless. Those were nice, but what really sent you into a spiral were the stories.

It felt wrong but so right. He was your co-worker (disgustingly hot co-worker) for fucks sake but…

The first video you came across made you blush like a little school girl, momentarily confused about wtf y/n stood for. It was an elaborate story about you and Bucky pining for each other, classic idiots in love, there were almost 50 videos for the one story. It was sweet. Wholesome.

And then there were the ones where you were apparently Tony’s daughter (not too different from reality, Tony was very protective over you, more like a brother) and you were caught hooking up with Bucky. It started off with him teasing you, then you sat on his lap and then…. Butterfly emoji. You can imagine the rest?

Czytaj dalej

[solinadarvenel-library]

Outer Banks

Rafe Cameron

smut

fluff

angst

[solinadarvenel-library]

Peaky Blinders

Tommy Shelby

smut

fluff

angst

[solinadarvenel-library]

Mine

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: Whenever the police chief gets a little too friendly with you, you find yourself having a very strict conversation with Spencer at the hotel.

Content/Warnings: Jealous!Spencer, unprotected sex, squirting

Word Count: 1.6K

Kinktober Day Twenty Eight: Squirting

Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3

Spencer felt his eye twitching as he noticed the newest chief of police was all over you. There was a child abduction case in Nashville, Tennessee that the BAU had offered their resources to. It was standard, children going missing and parents getting weird texts the longer their children were kept captive. You were spending a lot of time at the precinct with him due to you being the designated member alongside JJ to interview the families and surviving child victims who were let go.

“So agent. I got a few questions on your profiling abilities.” The man stated as he was leaning against the desk he was closest to, your gaze lifting from the case file the team had been building up over the past few days. “Okay, lay them on me.” You were just being friendly, not being the best at sensing when men were hitting on you or outright flirting. It was both a blessing and a curse. “Is it true that kids in abusive homes are guaranteed to be murderers?”

The question was quick but you were faster to answer. “No! Not in all cases. Stressors and triggers from childhood can play a big part in the psychological damage of a serial killer but there are people who came from relatively good homes who have murdered others in cold blood. There’s no exact genetic makeup or reason yet, but one day I’m sure it’ll all be answered in depth.”

The rest of the day went like that. He’d ask a question and you’d happily answer, although he was essentially eyefucking you while you were too enthralled in an explanation to pay close enough attention. Hotch had eventually instructed the team to go to their hotel for the night, the team needed rest after being awake for nearly twenty four hours without so much as a break.

The SUV ride back was dead silent, mostly because of exhaustion setting in. However, you could sense tension in your boyfriend as you rested your head lightly against his shoulder.

He’d been abnormally quiet at the precinct, barely even looking in your direction when you came near him. You figured it was exhaustion. Not only were you up for long hours but cases involving children were some of the most draining things you’d ever have to go through. After arriving at the hotel and everyone disbanding to get to their rooms, you were unlocking the door and getting your shoes off while Spencer quietly walked deeper into the room.

“Did you want to take a shower first, babe?” You asked, offering a smile.

It faltered though whenever your boyfriend was facing you, fury in his eyes. “Are we not gonna talk about how chief Lorn is shamelessly flirting with you? It’s like you're eating it up! I mean come on, babe. Why would you ever assume he would care about profiling related things?” His tone was steady, yet anger bubbling over the surface. You looked confused, an eyebrow raised. “Flirting? Spencer, he’s asking questions. I think you’re just tired and taking your emotions out on me.”

Very good guess and probably true, however Spencer wouldn’t admit that. “No. I’m not taking out my emotions on you for no reason. You think I don’t see you batting your eyelashes or laughing at anything this guy says? You don’t know how angry it makes me to know how blind you are to these signals.” Blunt. The words had your mouth agape in shock. “I’m not flirting with the damn police chief! Jesus, Spencer.”

“I don’t believe you. You look like you are eating up all the attention. You know, I bet he wouldn’t even treat you the way I do. Do you think he’d spend every waking moment dedicating his life to you? Huh? Do you think he could love you like I do?” His footsteps were quick and his path decided to back you up against the wall. “Cause I know for sure that he can’t make you cum like I do.” His honey colored eyes were blown out with lust, his hands immediately moving to grip your hips tight. “Spencer!” You squeaked, your pussy clenching desperately around nothing as you could feel the heat of arousal coursing through your veins. Spencer hardly ever got jealous like this, however you liked this side of him. He was rough and could be a little mean, which really did get the job done. “Tell me I’m lying.” His eyes narrowed, hand under your chin making you stare up at him.

“I-I wasn’t flirting with anyone! I was just being friendly.” Your voice was barely above a whisper while Spencer sighed and dropped his hand from your chin. “Go get on the bed.” He murmured, already working on getting his tie off. You knew what you were in for. Spencer didn’t act like this much but you knew that special incidents would pull this rather uncharacteristic side out of him. You’d done what you were used to, already stripping yourself down as you were crawling onto the hotel bed while preparing yourself for whatever was coming.

You knew that he wasn’t going to give you the princess treatment like usual, instead Spencer was getting right to business as he was reaching in his bag to pull out a condom from the side pocket and using his teeth to tear it open. After rolling on the rubber, he was heading over to the edge of the bed to grasp your ankle, tugging your body down the mattress. His gaze was focused on your pussy, a low hum leaving his lips. “Look at how wet you are.” His fingers were teasingly running through your slick folds to collect your sweet arousal, holding a hand up to show off the glistening digits. “Now, I wonder who did that..” He playfully pondered while giving his cock a few lazy tugs.

As he was situated between your legs, Spencer was grasping his shaft and smacking it against your pussy before moving to run his tip through your folds to further tease you, your hand gently reaching for his hip. “Fuck, Spencer. Please.” You whined.

That was all he needed to hear, his large hands wrapping your legs around his waist as he readied himself, his right hand on his cock while the left squeezed your hip. As the thick tip was breaching your soaked cunt, the male was shushing your whines. “We haven’t even gotten started yet. Tonight, I’m gonna show you just how much you don’t need some idiotic police chief and learn how to appreciate what you do have.” Jealousy wasn’t something Spencer was proud of but the emotion was prominently on display and he wasn’t gonna hide it.

His hips were slamming against yours without warning, a loud gasp falling from your lips as your head was falling back against the mattress. “Fuck!” You cursed, feeling the burn of his cock stretching out your desperate and leaking pussy from being shoved deep into your warmth. “You think he’d have you acting like this? Look at how desperate you are and I’ve barely touched you.” His voice was low as both hands roughly gripped your hips. Spencer was normally more of the soft and sweet side, however in these sorts of moods, he was different than anyone who really knew him could imagine.

His thrusts were relentless, your pussy sinfully squelching from each rough snap of his hips, your arousal adding a shine to his cock. “Is this what you wanted? To be fucked like a cheap whore?” The vulgarity alone was making your stomach do flips. This was the man who was bashful with saying the word bitch, yet here he was, cursing and calling you a whore. You wouldn’t complain at all, mainly because you couldn’t.

With his onslaught of assaulting your cunt, you were letting out a series of moans, shaky whines, and pleas for him not to stop. Your skin was flushed, nails digging into your partner’s shoulders as you were in pure bliss. “Look at you. You like it when I abuse your cunt, don’t you? Want to be used like the whore you are? Fuck,” He huffed out, lips smashing against yours as he wasted no time practically shoving his tongue in your mouth while slamming his cock into your pussy, slamming into the spot where you needed him most.

The feeling of your walls constricting and spasming around his cock was like a dream. Spencer was sensitive, so he loved feeling your gummy walls and being able to have them gripping at his shaft, your desperate pussy making an attempt to suck in more of his dick even though it just wasn’t possible.

You were seeing stars, a familiar heat brewing in the pit of your stomach. However, you weren’t able to speak, only being reduced to blubbering about being close, even so the words were slurred together and still hard read. Thankfully, Spencer knew exactly what you were trying to convey, a hand coming down between your sweaty bodies as he was quick to press his finger against your clit, the pressure on the bundle of nerves causing you to whine desperately.

However what happened next was something that even snapped Spencer out of his jealous haze.

He was in the midst of roughly fucking into you whenever your legs were shaking violently, your nails dragging down his back as your body arched from the bed while hitting your orgasm. Instead of making a creamy mess of his cock, there was a gush of arousal that painted his thighs, pelvis, your thighs, and the hotel bedsheets below you. Spencer was slowly coming to a stop while staring at you with wide eyes.

“You’ve never done that before!” He squeaked, his eyes casting down at the glistening of your arousal painting his skin. You were fucked out, your eyes glossed over as you opened your mouth to speak, however a moan falling out soon after.

“No, no. We are doing that again!”

[solinadarvenel-library]

Bucky Barnes angst

The Ties That Bind Us by @thevillainswhore - explicit sexual content

In too deep by @marvelstoriesepic - suggestive

[solinadarvenel-library]

Bucky Barnes fluff

crayon by @thyme-in-a-bubble

For Science by @thebarneschronicles

Pocket Angel by @buckyalpine

Your Halloween costume by @buckyalpine

Different, this time by @marvelstoriesepic - explicit sexual content

[solinadarvenel-library]

Benedict Bridgerton fluff

It's That Time Of Year by @fayes-fics - explicit sexual content