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spikedfearn · 2 months ago

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Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

#turns out vampire jack o’connell is my roman empire #the only plot here is what if a monster loved you too gently and then ruined you anyway“#yes he eats you out like it’s the last supper. no i will not be taking criticism at this time #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners fic #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners remmick #jack o'connell

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scientia-rex · 1 year ago

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A lot of younger people have no idea what aging actually looks and feels like, and the reasons behind it. That ignorance is so dangerous. If you don’t want to “be old,” you aren’t talking about a number of years. I have patients in their late 80s who could still handily beat me in a race—one couple still runs marathons together, in their late 80s—and I lost someone who was in her early 60s to COPD last year. What you want is not youth, it is health.

If you want to still be able to enjoy doing things in your 60s and 70s and 80s and even 90s, what you want to do, right now, is quit smoking, get some activity on a regular basis (a couple of walks a week is WAY better for you than nothing; increasing from 1 hour a day of cardio to 1.5 will buy you very little), and eat some plants. That’s it. No magic to it. No secret weird tricks. Don’t poison yourself, move around so your body doesn’t forget how, and eat plants.

If you have trouble moving around now because of mobility limitations, bad news: you still need to move around, not because it’s immoral not to, but because that’s still the best advice we have. I highly recommend looking up the Sit and Be Fit series; it is freely available and has exercises that can be done in a chair, which are suitable for people with limited mobility or poor balance. POTS sufferers, I’m looking at you.

If you have trouble eating plants because of dietary issues (they cause gas, etc.) or just because they’re bitter (super taster with texture issues here!), bad news. You still want to find a way to get some plants into your body on a regular basis. I know. It sucks. The only way I can do it is restaurants—they can make salads taste like food. I can also tolerate some bagged salads. On bad weeks, the OCD with contamination focus gets so bad I just can’t. However, canned beans always seem “safe,” and they taste a bit like candy, so they’re a good fallback.

If you smoke and you have tried quitting a million times and you’re just not ready to, bad news. You still need to quit. Your body needs you to try and keep trying. Your brain needs it, too. Damaging small blood vessels racks up cumulative damage over time that your body can start trying to reverse as soon as you quit. I know it’s insanely, absurdly addictive. You still need to.

You cannot rules lawyer your way past your body’s basic needs. It needs food, sleep, activity, and the absence of poison. Those are both small things and big asks. You cannot sustain a routine based on punishment, so don’t punish your body. Find ways to include these things that are enjoyable and rewarding instead. Experiment. There is no reason not to experiment—you don’t have to know instantly what’s going to work for you and what won’t, you just need to be willing to try things and make changes when things aren’t working for you.

You will still age. Your body will stop making collagen and elastin. Tissues you can see and tissues you can’t see will both sag. Cushioning tissues under your skin will get thinner. You’ll bruise more easily. Skin will tear more easily. Accumulated sun damage will start to show more and more. Joints will begin to show arthritis. Tendons and ligaments will get weaker and get injured more easily, as will muscles. Bones will lose mass and get easier to break. You’ll get tired more easily.

But you know what makes the difference between being dead, or as good as, in your 60s vs your 90s? Activity, plants, and quitting smoking. And don’t do meth. Saw a 58-year-old guy this week who is going to have a heart attack if he doesn’t quit whatever stimulant he’s on. I pretended to believe it was just the cigarettes, and maybe it is, but meth and cocaine will kill you quicker. Stop poisoning yourself.

Baby steps; take it one step at a time; you don’t need to have everything figured out right now. But you do need to be working on figuring things out.

#the attending dr. kristophine

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tonycries · 9 months ago

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BRAT!

Synopsis. Scream it! While he’s still asking nicely, that is…

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, creampíes, getting reader to not be quiet in béd, CÚMPLAY, spítting, Sukuna’s second tongue, oraI (fem rec), pússydrunk boys, squírting, six eyes, face-sítting, pússy-slappíng, true form Sukuna, chokíng, markíng, exhíbitionism (Nanami), víbrators, dp, slight voice kínks, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Love y’all, have a good leak day <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Let it all out!

“Doll…” he drawls out, that tiny scar at the end of his smirk dragging roughly against your glossy pout. And when Toji’s given nothing more than a few of your muffled, bit-back whimpers, he’s insisting - begging, “My stubborn girl-”

Five thick fingers wrap delicately around your neck - jostling your fucked-out expression up to his greedy gaze, “Cat got yer tongue?” As if to fuck the answer out of you, his hips are ramming angrily, knocking rawly into your bruised g-spot. “Don’t tell me you’ve been hah- fucked dumb already? Wha’s the problem, ma?”

It’s been hours now, and Toji’s absolutely wrecked - blood thumping in his ears, broad chest heaving with short rasps, stars bursting behind his half-lidded eyes after each sloppy thrust. And, yet, he still has enough sanity left to notice when you’re biting down brattily on your knuckles, throat tight with all those sweet moans being held back.

See, that’s when Toji gets impatient.

“Fine- be as quiet as your pretty lil’ heart desires, then.” Your eyes are widening at the mushy twitch of his rotund tip - still leaky, still angry. “We’ll see how long that lasts, anyway.”

Just that dark little promise is enough to make you keen - and he’s chuckling, “Now now- what did I say-” Those soft pads of his fingers glide up in a gentle curve towards your lips - but the way he just shoves them inside is anything but. Rounded tips constricting into the very back of your throat, “Ya wanna be quiet? Then, commit to it like the big girl you are.”

Big fat tears spring up to your eyes when he’s hiking a powerful thigh up, pressurizing the ruthless pace of his achy cock even more. Bullying into your velvety walls like he was angry, knocking all the air in your lungs with every glide of his swelteringly hot head along your cervix.

“Hngh-” you gurgle past his swirling fingers. Your nails piercing ravaged red lines where you’re gripping helplessly onto his wrist, “T-To-ah!”

There’s such a deafening squelch gushing out of your messy cunt when the mean digits on his free hand push down about halfway at your stomach, feeling for the branding little nudge of his fat cock. Toji’s mouth drops in awe at the milky white coating of his cum. Dredge after dredge soiling your inner thighs, forming a creamy little ring where he was pushing his thick hilt into you over and over-

“Shit-” his Adam’s apple bobs with a heavy gulp. Mindlessly, he’s falling down onto his elbows in exhaustion, bending you in half like a little ragdoll underneath him. “N’ suddenly I’m the one speechless, doll- Hahah-”

The heavy thwack! thwack! thwack! of his still painfully-full balls make your head spin, and Toji’s drinking in your little gasps like a starved man. Slow, languid, eyes drooping shut. “S’this why- hngh- s’this why my girl’s bein’ so quiet all of a sudden?” Hips stuttering forwards like he was losing control, just filthy, lusted-up little half-thrusts and drags of his length down your gummy channel. Even that was too much for his poor, overworked cock - painting your insides full with his thick, translucent precum with every swallowed-up inch. “Too cockdrunk? Too hah- full of my cum t’speak?”

You were so close - so overstimulated - you could barely string together a sentence. And you couldn’t have answered even if you wanted to - because your lovely boyfriend only rummaged his fingers deeper inside your mouth. Fuck- it felt so dirty having him fuck you like this - spitting against your lips, twitchy cock mashing deep into all your sensitive spots. Like he was reaching into your lungs - into your barely-lucid mind until you couldn’t do anything but nod.

“Mmmpf- I-” you’re managing out, the words coming out in a thick, garbled mess that makes his cock throb. “Hngh- yes yes yes-”

“Awww, fuckin’ knew it.” he coos, and it’s all the warning you’re getting before two big strong arms of his haul you up. Falling back onto his muscled thighs in a sitting position - with you all speared like a slut down his unforgiving cockhead. Being bounced up, up, up your limp body nothing against his inhuman strength. “Shit- fuckin’ knew it- My poor girl got fucked so good she couldn’t even speak, huh?” Toji just throws his head back at the answering clench of your elastic walls, molding around each one of his ridges and veins. “How cute–”

You cower under his weighty gaze, unable to escape. To do anything other than take it when his bicep bulges around your waist, tightening like a vice. “How so very-” Abs clenching when they ram- up- “cute-” He’s gritting his teeth, baring you with such a sweet, sultry smile, one that ghosts the very shell of your ear, “But why don’t you jus’ cum f’me now, ma.”

You don’t know whether his own words have Toji reaching his high - or maybe the sight of you does. Because all you see is black tinging your vision - then white, seeping out of the corners of your puffed-up folds, sopping a wet puddle into the non-existent space between you two.

He’s so vocal when he fucks you through your orgasm, raspy baritone wrenching out little praises like a mantra- “Yeah- yeah there we go. Louder f’me- scream it all out. I know you can do it.”

“P-please, Toji.” You don’t know what you’re begging for - and Toji doesn’t mind. Only pinning your body to his hulking one, holding you so close that your whimpered out moans are almost inaudible over his cushiony pecs. Babbling out, “Please- f-fuck it feels too good hah- m’cumming- m’cumming m’cumming-”

“Such a chatty girl, moanin’ so fuckin’ loud.” he titters. “Don’t you dare hold back that pretty voice from me, m’kay?”

But only when your orgasm bates into tiny tingles, only when your syrupy sweet moans turn quieten down - only then does Toji pull away. Shuffling onto his knees until his hot breath was fanning your eagerly quivering cunt, soft tongue dragging up your painted white slit, “So let’s see if you scream twice as loud for this, my girl.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Shhh…

“My love…” Nanami breathes out in a ragged pant, his hot breath breezing down your spine. Arching up so sultrily when the pistons of his hips slow down, aching for more more more- “Is something hah- wrong?”

It takes you a second to raise your bleary head up from where it rested amongst all the papers on the desk, the satin of your office skirt hiking up even further when you’re rutting your hips back in a quiet tandem. “N-nothing, Ken–” your words come out hushed - hurried.

And oh your husband looked so unfairly attractive when he was concerned, blond brows furrowing in the middle, running one hand through his disarrayed hair, the other pulling your teary eyes up to his. “You’re just being so-” There’s an experimental mash of his fat, rounded tip into your mapped-out g-spot, as if to confirm his suspicions. And Nanami grunts at the sight of you biting down on your lower lip, “-quiet…Now now-” His thumb comes to gently pry away your worried lip from under your teeth, “-what’s wrong?”

“S’jus’-” you hiccup, eyes flitting to the closed storage room door. “-m’ so close n’ someone might hear. I know Higuruma also has overtime-”

Shit - you’re so far into your little rant that you don’t notice the way his entire body stiffens, jaw clenching at the mention of your - and his - coworker. You can only gasp when Nanami’s towering figure just shoves you deeper into the cool mahogany desk. One hand on your head, the other wrapped nicely around your blabbering mouth.

“You’re right-” Nanami breathes, words tinted with a slow, dangerous purr. And it makes your velvety walls just seep a fresh gloss of your sweet sweet juices down all his long, hard inches. “-better not make a noise unless you want to get caught then, because m’not going easy on you today, darling.”

And fuck, Nanami likes to think himself a practical man - a sensible man, even. But right now all he could see was red - nothing past the way that other man had been eying you a little too closely these days, laughing at your jokes a little too loud.

Don’t get him twisted, he knows you’d never do anything - you were his pretty lil’ wife after all, the love of his absolute soul. But sometimes, he just wanted to make you scream it out.

Your pretty eyes bat hypnotically over your shoulder, “K-Ken- oh!”

Only to be shut up by the furious pummeling of all his rock-hard shaft, the sheer girth of it already making you keen. It’s enough for honeyed moans to bubble up in your throat, ticking in time with that angry pulsing of his thick tip massaging your plushy walls.

“Shh shhh-” Nanami coos, and you feel his abs ripple from behind you when he leans his weight down, down, down to pin you even more helplessly against the desk. Those thick fingers of his cover your mouth even firmer, “We hafta be quiet, remember?”

If he was looking for an answer, then Nanami fully and thoroughly fucks it out of you.

Those important documents are shuffling around everywhere, flying off the desk when you’re scrambling towards absolutely anything to keep just an ounce of your sanity. Because Nanami was hammering into you in such powerful, pressurized thrusts. Hard enough that you could feel the line of his hip bones along the fat of your ass, the circular smacks of his heavy balls along your thighs. Sure to leave marks that that sinfully short skirt of yours wouldn’t cover.

“Ken! Ken- oh my god-”

All you get in response is the sudden slowing of his mean pace, until your heady moans are softening down to mere whimpers.

It still feels so dizzyingly good this way, having your snug hole stretch limitlessly around his girthy shaft. Knocking so deeply and thoroughly against your womb, clenching your saturated walls down with every graze of the neat tufts of blond at his hilt.

“What did I say?” His mouth comes down onto yours in a heated clash of teeth and tongue and moans. So many rasping grunts furling from out of Nanami’s throat, spitting into your mouth, “Hafta- be hah- quiet. Or else Higuruma is- gonna- hear-”

And that hypnotizing push and pull is punctuated by the greedy drag of Nanami’s thumb down your clit, spelling out little patterns. Over and over-

Thud!

“Hah- I don’t-” you’re startling when he hikes up a leg onto the desk, the change in angle making you all but scream out into his ravenous mouth. “Don’t think I even- care anymore ah!” Every one of those syrupy sweet moans falling from your lips have Nanami hammering in even deeper, rattling the desk with his strength. “Just wanna- just want you to-”

You’re gasping at the familiar work of his fingers on your sensitive nub - a flurry of letters all over. K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-K-E-

“Say it.” he bites down on your earlobe. “Spell it out f’me.”

“M-m’gonna-”

K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-

“Scream it out, no need to be embarrassed.”

“Cum!” you’re sobbing. Heaving for air when he doesn’t take even a second to slow down, “M’gonna cum, Ken. M’so f-fuckin’ close.”

His next words are murmured at the crook of your neck, dangerously above your racing pulse. Making you flinch at the sharp teeth indenting over your skin, “Then cum.”

Oh and when you do it’s like something snaps. Because all you know next is that you’re being fucked through such a delicious high. White-hot pleasure having you quivering deeper into Nanami’s hold, dragging out each one of your peaks. Your throat feels raw, head swimming so much that you almost don’t hear-

“Just the way I like you.” Leaving a lingering peck at your collarbone, “All gorgeous and-” At the sensitive underside of your jaw, “-blissed out and-” Before you’re jumping at sharp canines sinking down into the side of your neck. Hard. Possessive.

It hurts - but it hurts so good that you don’t even register the way Nanami’s eyes flit to the door - slightly ajar now. Voice rising in volume when he finishes, “-mine.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - We’ll piss off the neighbors

“Mmpf- S-Sugu…”

“S-S-Sugu-” your beloved boyfriend is just leering, his velvety voice pitched dramatically high. Shoving apart your dangling legs so burningly wide to bully that furiously shuddering hot-pink vibrator even deeper inside your insatiable cunt.

He’s grinning such a dangerous grin down at you, “Now, why don’t you lemme hear those pretty moans of yours like usual, gorgeous- instead of holding back?”

And all you can do is squirm around mindlessly when he’s feeding your sloppy cunt inch after smooth inch of more of the thin vibrator. Rummaging around your clingy walls so much, “Come on now-” A taunting thumb of his glides along the intensity meter - Setting 1, Setting 2. Before finally resting smugly on Setting 3. Long, dark lashes bat at you, “You’re breaking my heart here!”

“P-please!” you sob out, before immediately worrying your lower lip shut. And Geto notices - of course, he does. The determined smirk on his face turning into something a little colder, a little more predatory.

“Aww, my poor baby doesn’t wanna speak with me.” he’s goading, leaving your plushy walls stretched full with the blissful girth of the vibrator. Letting you all but cockwarm it while he’s running a rigorous thumb over your puffed-up clit, “Tha’s fine. Whatever my girl wants, she’s gonna- get.”

Geto’s sharp tongue is running lewd stripes up and down the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking on the corners of your lips as if he isn’t driving you insane. As if he isn’t driving himself insane. The achy, fat tip of his reddened cock kissing wetly at your glossy folds, weeping hot precum that sticks to your slit, trickling down the buried hilt of the vibrator. Oh, how he knew - had planned out - exactly how he was going to make you scream.

But for now, he’s only pursing his lips together, letting you babble and whine unfairly to yourself.

“S’not- not that I hngh!” your entire body jolts when he’s wordlessly increasing the intensity - Setting 4. Nervous eyes flitting down to where Geto’s lengthy cock was sitting prettily across your open legs, throbbing. Waiting. “Jus’ the neighbors- hah- we got another noise complaint, Sugu–”

He still doesn’t budge, still doesn’t say a word. This time his fingers are toying your finger even sloppier. Tweaking and circles lazily along the sensitive nub, making you all but scream-

“Please- I promise-” you’re bucking your hips up for more more more. Feeling the sopping smack! of his hefty shaft come down on your skin, splattering translucent dredges of his syrupy precum all over your skin. “Promise s’jus’ that Sugu.” Shaky fingers of yours wrap around his long, inky hair - hauling him close to meet your lips, and you could feel the ridges of Geto’s toothy grin when you crack, “Feels so good- too good. N’- jus’ want your cock- hngh! Promise was jus’ trynna be quiet because the walls are th-thin and the-”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart, such a thick intrusion to your already filled-up cunt. Soft, supple walls being contorted around the vibrating toy - and Geto’s addition of his thick, weepy tip.

“Say please, then.”

You’re so completely and utterly fucked out that you barely even hear him at first - body moving before your mind when your lips sag open. Jumbling out a mess of, “P-please.”

“Hmmm…” Geto pretends to think, but he’s still circling open your elastic entrance to fit his needy cock inside. Taking it slow, sensual - making sure your silky sweet walls are rubbing against each and every one of the prominent veins down his middle, the rotund end of his head shoving its way inside. “S’not ‘nough - how about ‘please, Sugu’?”

“Please, Sugu!” Your nails claw their way down his broad, milky shoulders - leaving red, red marks that make him groan. That make his hips jut forward in a solid, thorough thrust, “Please- d-don’t care about the n-noise complaints hah- jus’ wanna be full of all of you.”

Geto doesn’t know if he can move, fuck, he doesn’t even know if he’s breathing. Eyes widening, head thrown back at the slightest feeble clench of your velvety walls desperately trying to accommodate around his cock and the vibrator.

It takes beat - two, of him grinding in filthy gyrating motions, abs flexing when his slender waist surges forward. All the way until that divot at his tip was branding into your spongy cervix, painful, cum-filled balls sticking thoroughly against your ass. Somehow, he’s managing to roll his eyes, “D-didn’t hafta hah- say that much, gorgeous.”

There’s a sharp flick!

Setting 5.

The heady room is instantly filled by both of your moans - so loud. Yours higher-pitched and cracking pathetically at the end, Geto’s throaty, like they were being dragged from his throat against his will.

Immediately, he bores down at you with a bit lower lip, eyes half-lidded, the corners of his mouth curled up in what almost seems like a smile. “Guess I better quiet down myself- hngh- huh?” he gasps - heaves - tremors of the vibrator rubbing up so deliciously at the underside of his throbbing shaft, jostling with each hastening ram into your gushing cunt. “B-because now that I finally got you to scream out f’me-”

You’re mewling when his thumb comes up uncharacteristically gently to swipe away your own lips from underneath your teeth - a habit, almost, at this point after you’d gotten a very huffy email about being too disruptive at night. Like right now. “-I don’t wan’ ta hear anythin’ else. And that includes noise complaints - because soon m’gonna move ya to our own house, pretty, don’t ya worry. And there-” Your forehead is branded with a soft kiss, your g-spot with a rough ram. “-you can scream as much as ya want.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “Please please please.”

Choso couldn’t stop even if he tried - he couldn’t hold back even one of those broken, whiny pleas wrenching from his rosy pink lips. So loud, deep voice pitching up highly at the end every time the weepy divot at the very end of his fat tip reached into the spongy bottom of your pussy.

“Baby- please, baby–” he drags out your sweet little nickname, two of his sizeable palms coming to splay out on the curve of your hips. Just dragging your gummy cunt down like a cocksleeve, helping you ride him in easy, relentless grinds. “Does it feel good? Tell me- does it- hah-”

His breath hitches with a sudden shudder when your fingernails dig into the side of his pale neck, using the leverage to just ram your cunt down in thorough, hypnotic gyrations.

“Please!” Choso’s gasping, eyes rolling to the back of his head. You’re jostling slightly precariously on his slender hips when he’s planting two feet flat on the silky sheets to buck up, up up- “Tell me- tell me how it feels, baby.”

Your fingers tighten involuntarily at the sound of his greedy beg, making him let out such a guttural groan. The sound sends shivers running along your spine, all the way down to where he was jackhammering into your ravaged cunt. Thumbing apart your swollen folds to keep them spread enough for him to bully his girthy hilt into. So depraved. Needy. “S-so good, Cho-”

It was an accident - really - you didn’t even mean to let the little compliment slip. But it’s enough for Choso’s eager cock to expand even girthier inside you, all the blood in his body rushing to stretch your elastic walls to their limits. You could feel him everywhere, molding you to the very shape of his cock.

“Yeah? Oh yeah?” he’s hissing, craning his neck up to mesh your lips together sloppily. Languid, delirious - kiss-bitten lips smacking when they’re sucking on your lolled-out tongue. Fuck, how he missed your voice. “Tell me- ngh! Tell me more, please.”

Oh, but really - your sweet sweet boyfriend was so pretty like this underneath you. Milky skin damp with sweat, his dark eyes dewy with tears and locked on you, mouth parting open in ragged grunts. Your favorite little melody - it made the way you bite your lip stubbornly all the more sweeter.

There’s another glissading stream of his sweltering hot precum coating your inner walls, sloshing around in a syrupy slow rhythm inside you. “Please-” He’s crying out again after a few more branding smashes into your bulging g-spot - lips wobbly as if he was on the verge of bawling without your voice. “Wanna hear your sweet moans, y’know? S’my f-favorite song-”

And you swear your hulking boyfriend’s mouth was upturned into such a pretty pout at that very second, soft planes of his hands caressing up and down your bent thighs. You can’t help but hum, making his head feel so lightheaded with that teasing quirk of your lips.

Or maybe it was the way your fingers clamped down tighter around his neck, sure to leave a perfect array of bruises from your splayed-out fingers. Jerking him even closer- “Fine- open that mouth if you love my voice so much.”

You’re barely even finishing the sentence before his jaw slacks open, tongue darting out - just in time to catch the steady glob of syrupy saliva you spit out. Right onto the middle of his tastebuds, Choso’s immediately slotting his mouth against yours in an even greedier mess of a kiss.

“Didn’t think you- hngh! like my voice that much, baby.” you’re humming, letting him hurl into a frenzy of powerful mashes into your g-spot. Some missing - drawing long, eager glides of his rounded, thick head along your cervix. “I like yours too, y’know. So much.” Leaving a lingering drag of his jutted-out bottom lip between your teeth, “S’why I ah- hngh- held back- love hearin’ you.”

And oh, every honeyed word of yours goes straight into twitchy cock, pulsing painfully into your mushy walls. Curving upwards so deliciously, Choso’s hold on you tightens - enough to draw blood, you might think, had he not cut his nails just earlier.

He’s fucking upwards into you so solidly hard - feverish drags of you down his massive length only getting rougher and rougher until he couldn’t-

“Don’t do that, silly girl- mm- can’t live without hearing those cute moans of yours, m’kay?” Big fat tears gloss down his sharp cheeks with how stimulated he was right now, and you could feel the weighty shifting of his balls. So tight they almost felt like they could burst. “So be loud. Be as loud as possible f’me- tell me how it feels, how you ah- want more- a-and-” His fingers now cup your face, leaving all the laborious duty down to his frantic hips. Yet, Choso didn’t mind - anything that let him glide a thumb along your spit-glossed mouth, tugging out your bottom lip from where you were trapping it between your teeth, “-and say my name.”

You do - and it’s just about all you can manage out when you’re leering down to bite on Choso’s sensitive earlobe. Exactly where you knew would make him shiver the most, rutting up animalistically to bounce you up even deeper, “Then cum f’me, Cho.”

And he thinks he will - fuck, at the sound of his name rolling off your saccharine sweet tongue he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. But not before teasing a hard roll of his thumb along your clit, “F-fuck you little- ah! You first, since you’ve been hah- holdin’ out on me. N’ this time-” His glinting eyes narrow, sharp canines bared in such a viciously fucked-out grin that it makes you clamp down - hard, “-you’re gonna be the one hngh- crying out, baby–”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - CHATTERBOX!

Now, usually when Sukuna had you all splayed out like this - your trembly thighs balanced on either side of his head, puffy pussy lips so sopping wet it made his mouth water - he knew you’d let out a few pretty noises.

A mewl when his hot tongue laps up the syrupy juices sopping from either side of your slit, a moan of his name when all he does is card the very edge of his soft muscle between them. And finally - finally - his favorite, a whiny beg for, “P-please, Kuna- no more teasing!”

How cute.

When you miss the first - he doesn’t think much of it, instead too engrossed in thumbing apart your swollen folds, admiring the way your greedy cunt was already glistening and winking down at him so sweetly. Spitting a fat wad of his saliva right on the bullseye of your entrance. When you miss the second, he’s concerned, humming a raspy growl at the back of his throat while wrapping two plump lips around your throbbing clit.

And when you miss that last one - oh, now you’re gonna get it.

Smack!

All give digits of his thick fingers come down hard on your hovering pussy, sliding a glistening syrupy wet sheen down to his wrist.

“S’this boring to you, woman?” the famed king of cures spits his words with a low, threatening rumble of his sculpted chest. And it’s all you can do to throb, whirling your glassy eyes down at his half-lidded, darkened gaze, “Anything else you’d rather be doing right now?”

You’re shaking your head deliriously - but that’s not enough for him, of course.

There’s another oozing little throb from your cunt - rewarded with another branding smack! across your sensitive clit. “Don’ wanna use your big girl words, hm?” Sukuna raises a brow, still holding such dangerous eye contact with you when he hollows out his cheeks, long tongue lolling out to make out with your pussy. “Fine then- let’s let this cute pussy speak for herself, hm?”

There’s only a drawn-out, sloppy squelch ringing through the heady air when he lays his tongue flat across your glossy lips. Just teasing around the very edge of your gushy entrance before the very tip of him dances up, up, up.

“Hngh!” you’re gasping at the feeling of him grazing over your clit in a sultry push and pull - and the sudden wetness of something else swirling around your syrupy sweet hole. “Wh- is that-”

“Shhh, didn’t ya wanna stay quiet, brat?” Sukuna cuts through your words, velvety coo making you just arch down harder to drag your slobbering cunt all across his eager face. And where that mean mouth of his was teasing you, his other - larger - tongue on his stomach was picking up wherever left off. More, even. “So shut up and let this pussy talk, why don’t ya?”

Ah, it was impossible to escape him. Two big beefy hands were steadied firmly around your quaking thighs, hauling you right onto his swallowing mouth, grinding you against his jaw like his favorite meal. You’re being bounced, almost on top of him - his other tongue driving you insane.

Reaching all the spots you could’ve never even imagined. Arching into you almost as deftly as his cocks, bullying past your puffy lips and into every bulbous areas of your sensitive spots. Fucking you so thoroughly-

“Hey-” There’s another reminder - one of Sukuna’s free hands planting a solid smack onto the very bulge of your elastic walls around his tongue. “Think she said she’s getting close- Almost didn’t hngh- catch it ‘cause you’re being a bit too hah-” He’s craning his thick neck back in for a messy kiss against your clit. “-loud-” Again. And again and again- plump smirk glittered with all your sweet sweet juices. “-dontcha think?” Smack! You’re whining in response, drunken hips pushing down as if to shut him up, “S’like you want to hngh- moan f’me. If you wanna then why are ya being so- fuckin’- stubborn.”

And fuck, you were so far gone that Sukuna almost didn’t expect a response. Half-lidded gaze locked on the trickle of drool slobbering down your slack mouth, eyes bleary, soft whimpers barely even audible over the sinful squelches! from down below. You were so loud, so drippingly wet in each one of your noises that it has him running his free palm over the outline of his aching cocks.

“B-because-” your wobbly voice makes his fat tips just gush out in thick ribbons of precum, seeping through the fabric of his decadent yukata and onto his fondling palm. “Felt embarrassing- the position a-and hah! got nervous I’d be too whiny or somethin’, Kuna…”

“That so?” Sukuna simpers, voice a little more silky soft than before. And the gentle smack! on your cunt reads as more fond than punishing, “Stupid brat- ya think I’d be like this if I didn’t like your pretty noises?” As if to prove his point, the two hands on your body ride you harder down his mouth. Sloppier. More depraved. “Nervous for what- s’jus’ me, y’know?” Tonguing back teasingly over your glossy clit, his eyes just bore into yours. Baritone vibrato pulsing down your achy pussy, “And I love every lil’ thing you do, my girl.”

His guttural moans are still echoing from the very base of your cunt when you cum - so hard. Violent, even, that Sukuna has to wrap his strong arms around you to keep you from escaping. It’s all your poor pussy can take. Waves of pleasure taking you away. Gushing and gushing so hard-

“Sh-shiiiit-” Sukuna utters - and it’s only then that you realize just how much you’d cum, quivering hole letting out bursts of your syrupy sweet slick. Just coating the entire lower half of his face, his cheekbones, down to his pecs in everything you’d squirted.

And while his lower tongue still laps at your honeyed juices, letting each bead slide down the muscle. He licks his lips with a sigh, “Let’s ask this gorgeous cunt if she can do that on my cocks now, too, hm? N’ this time- ya better scream f’me.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Shut up.

“Sweetheart…”

“Satoru.”

“No-”

Maybe it was the way your sorry boyfriend was just aching to hear your sweet sweet voice moan around his name, maybe it was the way he’d been spending hours already groveling and worshiping your body. Or maybe it was the way your clingy walls just pulsed all around his weepy cock, squelching in a way that makes him salivate.

“I told you, my girl–” he soothes out in an almost-whiny tone. Pressing an overly-wet peck at your forehead, your nose, on either side of that scolding pout on your glossed-up lips. “I’m- sorry- I’ll listen to whatever hah- gossip about your favorite show next time just please-”

Two rough hands rest at the globes of your ass, purposefully jostling your fucked-out body to face him - he wasn’t letting you escape any time soon.

There’s the slow, lingering squelch of Gojo rolling his hips forwards in such a dizzying tandem. Shoving you further and further up those expensive silken sheets at the hotel suite he’d booked for tonight - all for his little apology.

“I s-see that lil’ smile-” he’s grunting, forcing two fingers around your face to look right into his greedy gaze. “Aww, come on- wontcha forgive me? M’begging here- begging.” And when you’re still keeping your mouth stubbornly shut, he’s throwing your limp legs over his broad shoulders. Running a syrupy slow circle over your neglected clit, “-promise I won’t fall asleep next time ya hah- t-talk my ear off.”

You have to admit that every saturated glide of his throbbingly fat tip has your jaw slacking further and further. Honeyed moans just bursting behind your lips, he’s stretching you out so sinfully.

And, yet, it was so fun to see the strongest all broken down like this - eyes drooping almost closed, pouty lips with a glistening sheen of spit, little whimpers sounding at the back of Gojo’s throat every time he’s knocking right into your bulged-out g-spot. It drove him absolutely insane to see you purposefully hold back your pretty moans.

“No no no no no-” he’s frantically prying away the knuckles you’re biting down deliriously on, trying to ease out those soft little whimpers and mewls. “My stubborn girl.” Pecking lingeringly at your lips, “Won’t you just scream- f’me-”

With a singular, jutting slam! of his hard hips against yours, you’re just keening - because Gojo was just crashing angrily against your poor g-spot. No longer teasing grazes and glides along your soppingly wet walls, just daring you to beg for more as you always did.

No, he was pressing into your g-spot with ferocious power, muscles rippling across his hulking body when he’s sliding his fat cock back, back, back- Only to reel all the way forwards, the very curve of his globular head curving thoroughly against your sweetly sensitive spots. Again. and again. And again and again-

“Ah!” you’re scrambling up onto your elbows, connecting your forehead with his own. “S’too-”

You didn’t know what you were going to say - to have him beg more- to have yourself beg for more? But whatever it was clings to your heavy tongue when you’re raising your head up to meet your boyfriend’s.

Because oh you knew that flushed, blank expression on his face, the slight crinkle of lightning at his eyes. This fucker-

“Whoops.” Gojo’s grinning, not a drop of regret in his words. “Guess I must’ve hngh- accidentally used six eyes when I-” Another nudge of his rotund head against your g-spot, only picking up in pace. Only plugging you full of his deep, grinding inches - fucking you so thoroughly into the mattress that you could hear the bedframe creaking in protest, your own cunt squelching ravagedly. “-hah- fuck this cute pussy. But hey…” He leans his face even closer, that infuriating curl of his lips only growing, “-I don’t hear ya complainin’ now, do I, sweetheart?”

“Especially when m’ruining you right-” Splaying out all five of his long, pale fingers across your stomach - drawing an invisible line where he was branding the imprint of the very top of his length into the bottom of your pussy. “-here?”

Fuck, he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“Y-you’re so-” you’re managing to gasp, eyes narrowing as he leans in even mockingly closer. But you can’t hide the slutty bliss in your tone, the way you tug and tease his soft, snow strands. “-so infuriating, y’know. I shouldn’t even hah- be lettin’ you off the hook this easily.”

He’s moaning twofold, like the sound of your voice electrifies him. Hefty shaft twitching with each piston, painfully tight balls just clenching so painfully. “Yeah- hahah- yeah, isn’t it because you love me?”

The entirety of his body shivers when you lock your legs tightly, bowing his body even closer to stick to yours. “It’s because-” you purr, batting your lashes so sultry. Spitting against his lips, “-you’re such a pain in the ass, Toru.”

And then he’s cumming - and cumming and cumming so hard that Gojo doesn’t have the time to be embarrassed. All he can really think about is the syrupy slow slosh of his seed painting inside your gummy walls, shooting out in thick dredges.

You giggle, eyeing down at the puddle of cum and saturated slick oozing down your thighs. Leaking out of your weepy slit, “Heh…for someone that wanted me to hngh- s-speak up so much, you sure are weak, Toru.”

The second roll of his nickname on your tongue is enough for Gojo to be gushing out another wave of potent cum into your snug channel. Hissing, he’s swiping at the creamy ring forming around his hilt, pooling the mess on the large pads of his fingers before-

“Maybe s’better when you-” Bullying them between the seam of your mouth, he’s swirling around your hot tongue. “-don’t speak.” Your answering glare is enough, “J-just kidding!”

A/N. If y’all need me I’ll be in my prayer circle manifesting for a Gojo comeback…

Plagiarism not authorized.

14K notes · View notes

marvelstoriesepic · 23 days ago

Text

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

3K notes · View notes

swordgrace · 23 days ago

Text

❝ 𝐨𝐡, 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after a particularly rough mission, bob is insistent on taking care of you — though, you’re better at taking care of one another, instead.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.3K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: soft smut (mdni), mentions of past trauma/insecurities, mental health talk, tooth-rotting fluff/loving antics, sub!bob but he’s also a little assertive, body worship, bob has a praise kink, hair pulling, face-sitting, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, heavy kissing, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, descriptions of cum, cowgirl position, riding. heavy aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I am so obsessed with him that it actively eats away at my brain. 😭 Anyway, I love Bob & I love writing for him even more! I hope that you guys enjoy! Thank you for your support! 🫶

Scalding columns of water douse you from above, the shower threatening to burn your flesh if you didn’t adjust the temperature.

In the aftermath of another Avengers operation, it’s as if pieces of yourself are chipped away, healing with time, a pang of exhaustion reverberating through your marrow.

Even with an inhuman durability, the pain is raw, indents of fists and flying rubble interlaced into your flesh.

Each bruise is muscle-deep, knots made by hostile hands, peppered against your ribcage, threading along your spine; even searing water offers little relief from the dull ache.

Steam wisps in damp clouds throughout your bathroom, tepid, but it clears your senses, as if it’s washing away the mission you’d recently returned from. Exhaustion hasn’t hit you yet, merely looming in the background, a patient spectator.

Lungs expand with a shallow inhale, droplets cascading over your body, carrying with it a trail of copper, swirling into the drain. A handful of cuts mar your flesh, dried blood scrubbed clean when the water blankets you.

Through furrowed brows, your gaze screws shut, content to marinate beneath the shower’s intense pressure, knees folded, tucked near your chest. Tresses are soaked, damp and sticking to your skull, oozing with warmth.

Soap suds have long since dissipated, swallowed by rivulets of water, trickling through the chrome grate. The drone of water hitting the floor provides a gentle ambiance, accompanied by your breath — steady, shallow.

Reaching for the knob, you turn it clockwise, the spout beginning to sputter as you shut off the shower. There’s a hush that follows, save for the idle hum of the fan, an occasional buzz of the lights that flicker, casting your bathroom in an orange glow.

A fluffy towel awaits you, strewn over black, metallic rungs that match the general aesthetic of your room. Valentina made everything neutral, mute — the distinct lack of color made for an eyesore, and you’d taken to decorating your quarters with a pop of vibrancy.

Drying off, you rid yourself of slick skin, finding some relief afterwards, crawling into one of Bob’s sweaters and your pajama shorts. It smells like him — parchment and sandalwood, hints of vanilla that you’ve rubbed off on him, the scent of home.

As you clean up, you nudge the door open, letting billowing steam drift into your bedroom, releasing the caged heat. Bare feet cross the threshold into your quarters, bed barely made, but everything else seems rather organized.

A golden sunset crests upon the horizon of the New York cityscape, visible from your window, bulletproof glass tinted to banish any onlookers. Waning rays of orange pool through, glittering over your quarters, catching flecks of dust.

With a huff, you collapse along your bed, mattress foamy, downy to cushion your battered body. Tension unfurls from you in one wave, bleeding out as you allow yourself to relax, cradled within the comforts of home.

Gentle raps at the door ensnare your attention, and from pattern alone, you know who it is.

“It’s open.” You call, perched along the edge of your mattress, index finger drawing slow circles around the sheets. The door panel slides open with a soft whirring, a momentary hum that fades away.

Bob is constantly anxious to see you, especially after a mission, gaze glittering with ardor, a sentiment as gentle as springtime, a warmth that extends into his features.

He’s in loungewear, plaid pajama pants with a mismatched sweater, brunette tresses a touch disheveled. There isn’t a need for him to ask to come inside — your relationship dissolved those barriers long ago.

“Hi.” His greeting is soothing, nervousness placated by your smile, a pearlescent, sparkling thing of beauty. The fumbling, awkward tension has evaporated between the both of you, making room for affection, for the feelings you openly share.

Slipping from your bed, your feet carry you with a sudden haste, arms slithering around his middle, hugging him as if he’d slip through your fingers. He’s warm, his own sun, an everlasting plane of heat that thaws your bones.

Beneath the collar of your sweater, Bob notices the cut there, brows creasing together. With every mission you complete, his worry grows, and the thought of you being injured is a discomforting one.

Despite the tenderness of your flesh, it doesn’t take an ounce of coaxing for Bob to reciprocate your hug, arms caging you in against him, cheek nestled atop your crown. You’re damp, but he’s unperturbed, cradling you close.

His embrace feels like home, comfortable and easy, a sanctuary that the two of you have forged together. He holds you as if he might lose you too, body curling around yours, able to hear the excitable tick of your breath.

Bob’s hands idly caress over your waist, over your spine, able to hear the audible exhale of relief that slips through your nose. Hands smooth wherever he can reach, reverent, each embrace always echoing with affection.

There’s a hush that falls between, a solemn silence that shatters when your voice hums against his chest. “I missed you,” You murmur, adjusting your head enough to stare at him, lips curling into a smile. “Missed you a lot.”

Bob preens at the softness of your confession, hand dragging along your spine until it shifts to cup your jaw. “I missed you too, so much,” He missed you terribly, gaze oozing with affection. “Are you hurt?” Through furrowed brows, he gestures to the cut lingering near your collar.

“Scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious,” Reassuring, you tilt forward, absorbing the heat that radiates from him, basking within it. “It was relatively routine for a mission.” You hum, feeling his lips press against your temples.

Affection is something he lavishes you in freely, though you pamper him enough, Bob knows when to take care of you, too. Dark blues shift to admire you, finding you to be so beautiful, the light of his life, sun piercing a veil of cloud.

He’s still somewhat shy whenever you become heated, dancing around the fringes of intimacy, getting close but not fully there. You don’t mind, content to take it as slow as he wanted, but there’s always a flicker of want that stirs within your chest.

“I’ll take care of you,” Bob murmurs, and the sentiment makes you preen with warmth. He’s good, the epitome of a devoted partner, the river you’re wading through. “I—If you want me to.” He clarifies, sheepish.

You’re often the one taking care of him, a role that you’ve seamlessly melded into without complaint. It’s never perturbed you, never crossed your mind that the roles could reverse for once, but you don’t want him to feel obligated.

He wants to, more than anything — you’re good to one another, ardor all-encompassing, and Bob is eager to let you settle, let him dote on you.

“I want you to,” Hands slip from spine to abdomen, palms flush against his ribs. “You’re never obligated, though.” Despite the gentle reminder, Bob nods, brown tresses stirring with each jostle of his head.

“I know, I just … You mean everything to me,” Bob sighs, allowing sentiment to blossom, flourish within the heat of your shared affections. He loves you, loves you gently, kindly — loves you more than anything else. “I want to.”

There is something wonderfully uncomplicated about the way he loves you, unconditional; judgment is nonexistent, and so is the fear of falling. Owlish hues bore into you, as if searching for your heart, but it’s on your sleeve, plain for him to see.

Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb lightly circling over the cut that’s settled along your jawbone, and you turn, lips kissing his palm. A stutter forms within his exhale, scarlet curling around his features, snaking toward his throat.

When he’d first met you in the underbelly of Valentina’s vault, he thought he’d seen an angel — you were aglow, framed by the hum of garish lights. He recalled your gaze, even now; kind and gentle, safeguarding him from harm.

It almost felt so long ago, seven months, but no amount of time with you was wasted, nor insignificant.

He’d grown in his healing journey, at a point to where things had become easier to manage, easier to navigate his trauma. Meditation and counseling were crucial, and sometimes you joined him, ensuring that he had support.

“You are so perfect, Bob,” Not perfect in the sense of ability or strength, but his heart — a tender thing, one that you had found your serenity in. His lips twitched into a smile, besotted, growing accustomed to hearing you say it. “How did I get so lucky?”

Lucky wasn’t a word he’d use, but he was working on his self-esteem, attempting to squash the malicious insecurities, the whispers of doubt. It was difficult to extinguish self-loathing, but he was making progress, day by day.

A keening chuckle slipped from his lips, followed by a glint of pearlescent teeth, perhaps a twinge of disbelief. “I ask myself that, too,” Bob confessed, fingertips grazing along your cheek, his touch loving, and never anything less. “Very lucky.”

Flattered, your nose crinkles slightly, digits smoothing over his sides as you tilt forward to press your chin against his chest. His physique is lean, cut muscle, stature taller than you, hovering above as he meets your gaze, seeping with affection.

Lashes flutter in their ardent appraisal of you, lips pressing against the bridge of your nose. For a man who holds the power of a thousand suns within his palm, he behaves shrewdly, as if his capabilities lie far beyond his reach.

“Little lower.” Through a velvety croon, you watch as Bob’s features burn with crimson, though he’s delighted to oblige you. His lips skim over your nose, finding your mouth with seamless ease, eagerness entangled with clumsiness.

His heartbeat climbs toward a quick rhythm, an excitable thrum that reverberates through his sternum, singing your name. Noses brush over one another, kisses often exploratory, slow — it makes for a sweeter experience.

In the brief seconds where lips part, he exhales, a warm sigh feathering over your visage, as if you’re absorbing the sun’s soft rays. Bob often overthinks whenever you’re physical, not of any fault of your own, he simply wants to be the best he can for you.

Even still, your presence soothed him, a wordless lullaby, ceasing his constant barrage of nerves. His hands are unhurried, mapping your body with familiarity, caressing until they’ve settled above your hips.

Thumbs circle patterns through the fleece of your sweater, his sweater, draped over your frame as the fabric brushes the middle of your thighs. Each kiss evokes a wave of yearning from you, soul to soul, wrapped up within his splendor.

Undaunted, Bob’s mouth melds with yours, two pieces seamlessly fitting together, hearts joined in-tandem. A furrow forms within his brow, that of concentration as he pours affection into his kisses, listening to the hitch in your breath.

Between parted lips, nudging aside to seize the air, your hands dance along his biceps, skirting lower, holding steadfastly to his forearms. “I love you.” You hum, three words that he never grows tired of hearing.

Bob said it first, a month ago — when it tumbled from his mouth, you thought he was teasing, or perhaps speaking out of-turn. His sincerity manifested in the form of tears and a wistful speech about how much he loved you.

You made it a point to tell him every day, heart growing warm with a muted buzz, an ardor that blossomed through your chest. He liked telling you how much he loved you, too; he had someone to protect, someone to cherish.

A warm, half-chuckle escapes him, the sound scratching pleasantly at the back of your mind. Still, his thoughts are shrouded by doubt, by a shadowy snarl that plagues him, taunting; Bob has gotten better at blocking it out.

Lips press sweetly to his jaw, beneath his eye, whatever you’re able to reach whilst stretching up upon your toes. Sunset stretches over his features, blanketing him in burnished orange, catching upon his dark blue hues.

“I love you too.” Bob murmurs, abashed by the doting affection you lavish him in, unable to stop himself from smiling.

Happiness wasn’t a prevalent theme in his life, but after he met you, it became a constant — he wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

Delighted, you crawl into bed, sprawled out upon your back, one arm tucked beneath your head. His sweater rides up along your hips, revealing the thin, cotton shorts that brush along your thighs.

Bob joins you, sitting criss-crossed at your side, tracing circles over your midriff. The soothing warmth of his touches makes your stomach surge with butterflies, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

“What are you thinking about?” A saccharine utterance slips past your lips, cadence tender as you tilt your head enough to peer up at him. Brunette tresses frame his face, chin bristling with a tiny hint of a growing stubble.

His mind is often a whirlwind — there’s plenty going on, from therapy and counseling to his own shadowed trauma, though his even days seem to eclipse the lows more often than not. Bob thinks about you the most, about your future together.

Sentry was supposed to be the pinnacle of good, the savior of citizens, the world’s mightiest hero; and part of him still wants it, to help, to be good. He wants to be a symbol of hope, of aspiration, of how brokenness can turn into something whole.

Though, with ascending the role, comes It, comes the darkness that haunts his silhouette, a penumbra of his innermost demons.

“A lot,” Bob confesses, noticing the twinge of perplexity that settles on your features. “Nothing bad, just … The future. Our future, my future.” He knows he can confide in you for anything — you’re his sanctuary.

“Our future?” Something hot snakes through your veins, an excitable heat that makes you preen. The fact that he’s given your relationship such consideration elates you.

“Yeah,” His timbre is soothing to you, a lower rumble that seeps into your bones, makes you feel entirely at-ease. “It’s the most optimistic I’ve felt about something in years.” Bob admits, digits nonchalantly toying with the hem of your sweater.

Reaching for his hand, you caress his knuckles, fingers curling around his hand, flesh and blood, tethering you together. “Me too,” You smile, your heart nearly bursting from your chest with joy. “You might be stuck with me forever.”

Bob’s gaze is heartwarming, raw — the concept of being with you forever is more of a comfort, no inkling of despair or discontent. “I’d prefer it that way.” He utters, voice barely hovering above a whisper.

Fingers squeeze together, and the beam you give him elicits another blush, scarlet blanketing his countenance, as warm as an open flame. He presses a hand against his chin, somewhat reeling with disbelief; he never thought he’d have this again.

“What about your future?” Feather-light, your tone is inquiring yet tranquil, noninvasive. With a soft groan, you manage to sit up, sweater ruffled around your middle. Bruises sit heavy within your muscle, soreness stretching throughout your body.

Leg-to-leg with him, you feel his fingertips circle over the top of your thigh, innocent instead of amorous. “With my powers and everything,” Bob murmurs, struck by a sudden wave of emotion. “I just — I want to help people, and I feel like I can’t.”

There’s a melancholy that swirls within his gaze, a thinly-veiled desperation to be useful, to safeguard — what good is he if he can’t even protect you? Tears prick at his eyes, glistening with a wet sheen as he attempts to blink them away.

Bob’s still working through the process of healing, but with that, he’s reluctant to use his powers. They’re there, he feels them — like waves before an earthquake, subdued yet powerful. He’s afraid of it all crashing down on him again, and you, the team.

“Bob, it’s only been a couple of months,” You soothe, hand caressing along his forearm. “Sometimes, the healing process can take a long time. I think you’ll still be able to help people — you help the team now, just as you are now.”

It’s reassuring, but he still feels a twinge of desolation, wanting to talk it through before it catalyzes into something worse. “I know, I just want to be useful. I want to be someone that people can look to for help.”

“You’ve no idea how useful and important you are, Bob,” In your eyes, he’s everything — he’s your heart. “If it weren’t for you, this team might not even exist. What we’ve built, the family we’ve become — it all started with you.”

He’s never looked at it that way, feeling a tear tumble down his cheek, one that he hastily wipes away with the sleeve of his sweater. You’re staring at him as if he’s moved mountains, the center of your universe, a sun whose light you stand within, even if it wanes.

Reassurance is something you’re good at; you’re soft for Bob, incredibly supportive, but you’ve never babied him. He doesn’t enjoy being viewed as helpless, and you’ve made sure that it’s never the case with your relationship.

Sweetly, your hands finds his again, lifting it to your lips as you press a kiss over his knuckles. Bob’s heart lurches, threatening to soar from his chest, mouth parting to make room for a tremulous exhale.

“I love you,” Bob murmurs, pearlescent teeth splitting through his forlorn expression like sunlight through a gray cloud. You have an extraordinary gift for knowing what to say, knowing how to keep him grounded. “I love you so much.”

Nothing short of genuine, he draws you closer, muscled arms caging around you in a hug that’s akin to a furnace. His temperature is inhumanly warm, often running hotter, but you’ve grown to adore it, especially on cold nights.

Without an inkling of hesitation, your arms slip around his middle, palms splayed beside his spine, rubbing his back in slow caresses. Bob finds solace in your embrace, as if you lessen the sting, rip his pain away and throw it elsewhere.

A pang of guilt follows when he realizes that he should be taking care of you, embarrassment settling onto his visage. “Sorry, I … I didn’t mean to make everything —” He stops when you shake your head back and forth.

“Don’t apologize, Bob. I want you to get things off of your chest, and your feelings are valid,” As if to cement your words, you plant a kiss against his cheek, still keeping an arm strewn over his midsection. “I’m always here for you.”

Melancholy and despair subside, and shadows dissipate with it, slithering away as they retreat from the corners of his mind. His chest expands with a shallow, concentrated inhale, breathing deep as he regains composure.

A comfortable silence lingers between, filling the void with affectionate smiles and longing glances, his hand tangled with yours. It’s a brief meditative state that he’s fixated on, something that he’d learned in therapy to manage negative thoughts.

You breathe with him; steady, lungs inflated with crisp air, stretched before you exhale. The process repeats itself, tangled together within the hush of your quarters, blood-orange sunlight twinkling through, turning his brown tresses to caramel.

Bob’s stare is fixated on you, as if he’s glimpsed something beautiful for the very first time, doe-eyed and yearning. He’s been teased for it before, but in the privacy of your bedroom, he’s unabashedly in love with you — no veil conceals his affections.

Melting beneath his gaze, you offer him a gentle smile, as if he’s kissed by summertime, lost within a world of warmth. Bob smiles too, canting forward, lower until his forehead brushes over yours.

Noses graze over one another, a subtle invitation for a kiss, which he initiates this time. He’s often riddled with nerves, but they seem quiet now, and the hush is comforting.

Lips meld together, seamless, and you’re floating, hands shifting to gather at the nape of his neck, carding through his hair. He’s exceedingly gentle, heart bleeding into your mouth, devoted — and you begin to lean backwards.

As you lower yourself down, back flush to pressed sheets and a thin comforter, Bob follows, one leg nestled between yours. Shrouding you with his body, the kiss resumes as if it hadn’t been broken to begin with, and he tastes of ardor.

Hands splay on either side of your head, sweater billowing from his musculature, offering you a glimpse of his abdomen. The serum had altered his physicality drastically — Bob sometimes didn’t recognize his own skin when he looked in the mirror.

He’d grown accustomed to it though, the muscle, the durability, inhuman stamina — exhaustion didn’t feel the same as it used to. Each kiss seems to elongate, mouths barely inching away from one another, entanglement crackling with embers.

When your mouth begins to still, gathering wisps of air to fuel your lungs, Bob’s tresses hang down, tickling your cheeks. “Hey.” You giggle, nose wrinkling slightly as you pull a laugh from his chest, body quaking above you.

“Hi,” Bob whispers, fingers reaching to caress over your cheek, extending into your hairline as he clears his throat. “You’re so pretty.” His murmur is low, a touch husky, stomach churning with butterflies as he shifts, leg ghosting over your core.

A subtle shiver grips your spine, lips parting as a sigh inhabits your throat, preening in the wake of his sweet compliment. “Yeah?” Swallowing the slight lump within your throat, your hand reaches to cup his cheek, thumbing across his jaw.

It’s present, the tension; a familiar burning that seems to crawl between bodies, amorous and wanton, lacking the hunger of lust. It’s thirst he feels, as if you’re a body of water, the lifeblood he needs to survive, to exist.

Bob exhales, warmth feathering over your features, the noise wrought with exhilaration. There’s a swell of sentiment dancing within his eyes, an amalgamation of adoration and something more.

Dipping lower once more, his lips brush over yours, missing by a mere inch, teeth dryly clicking together, eliciting a laugh from you. It’s bubbly, bright; he murmurs an apology, sheepish, but you’re drawing him back in.

Kissing him feels effortless, no expectation of performance, anxiety having bled away into nothingness.

It’s comforting, allowing your vulnerability to show, heart on your sleeve for him. Soft digits trace over his nape, other hand splayed flat against his shoulder blade.

Sunlight drains from the skies, the atmosphere infused with shades of mauve, an inky-black chasing after it. The orange glow dissipates from your bedroom, and with the coming of nighttime, the nightlight above your headboard flickers on.

Legs tangle within one another, a knot of limbs as he kisses you with such compassion, perhaps a twinge of something fervent. It’s as if he wants something, afraid to ask for it — there’s a hint of restraint in his kiss, even still.

“Are you okay?” A soft murmur echoes against his mouth when lips fleetingly draw apart, prompting another owlish stare from him. He’s flushed, thinking about you — everything he wants, pent-up in some knot.

“Yeah, I just — I love you.” Bob blurts in an effort to distract from what he’s really contemplating, turning over his desires in his mind, his incessant yearning. His lips twitch into a smile, one that’s still dancing with nerves.

“I love you too,” With a whisper, your fingers drift to sweep brunette tresses away from his eyes. “What’s on your mind, Bob?” You prompt, noticing his growing embarrassment when you pose the question.

Bob swallows again, flustered, but he decides to come clean about how he’s feeling. “You,” Spoken through a low, pleasant husk, it turns your stomach, bones lurching with butterflies. “I want to be with you, but I … I haven’t done anything in a long time.”

You know what he’s referring to without elaboration, feeling a pang of anticipation twirl within your belly. A brief exhale parts your lips, warmth spreading over your flesh. “That’s okay,” You assure, hand tracing his jaw. “I haven’t, either.”

You’ve been intimate before, in smaller steps — touching one another, half-undressed, sighing names into kiss-swollen lips. This is different, this is more; but you want him, want to give him everything that you can.

His past experiences were often muddled by drug-use, a haze of limbs that felt meaningless, something to extinguish the isolation. This was love, adoration — with you, things were different; each touch meant something.

Bob seems somewhat reassured, shoulders lighter, visage no longer wrought with stress. He relaxes, still poised above you, wondering how to start, how to naturally progress into the next step.

It’s you who closes the gap and initiates, lips softly tangling with his own. Passion festers, an active participant the more your mouths meld together, seamlessly molding to one another.

A soft groan echoes within his throat, swallowed by your mouth as lips clamor. You’re everything, everywhere; his heart beats a rhythm that only you seem to understand, fingers treading toward the hem of his sweater.

Each kiss was bruising, tender — wrought with such adoration that it made your belly pulse with a familiar heat. Exhilarated, your hand continued to caress over his muscles, dancing along his abdomen.

Heat radiates from him, as if he’s his own splendid sun, warm to the touch. You treat him so well, especially when intimacy arose, ensuring that he was always taken care of — Bob wants to return the favor tenfold.

With gentle coaxing, you begin to sit up, guiding him toward the pillows, letting him sit as you politely crawl into his lap. Thighs pin against his hips on either side, a pliant cage, feeling Bob’s hands shyly trace over your legs.

Mesmerized is a mere understatement; he’s bewitched, gazing at you as if you’ve moved mountains, doe-eyed and wanton. Love oozes from every fiber of his being, and you can taste it in his kiss when his mouth meets yours again.

Bob’s throat jostles as he swallows, exhilaration tangled with enthusiasm welling up inside of him. It seems to squash his initial anxiousness about it all, but only slightly. He feels your fingers card through his tresses, unable to his smitten expression.

The hem of your sweater, his sweater, ghosts over his fingertips, prompting him to take a gentle fistful of the woolen fabric. “May I?” Bob always asks — it’s the same sweeter cadence accompanied by a longing look.

With a nod, you lift your arms, stifling a laugh when the collar momentarily snags on your chin, gooseflesh clinging to your spine as the garment is removed. He sets it aside, a scarlet pallor invading his features; you aren’t wearing anything underneath.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bob is constantly awestruck by you, as if he’s seeing your body for the first time all over again. He feels fortunate then, fortunate now; he wants you to have all of him. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

His low, husky compliment makes your bones lurch, shivering in spite of his praise, your hands searching for the hem of his sweater. “You’re so sweet to me.” You murmur, gaze roving over his countenance, prompting him to sigh with elation.

Bob smiles, scarlet-faced as he moves to cradle your jaw. He’s relaxed, more excitable than nervous, stomach still coiled into an excitable, anxious knot, flesh bristling as he kisses you again.

Bodies twine together, and you’re slotted in his lap, hips occasionally urging against his own. There’s friction present, hot and familiar; he’s infatuated by the sensation. He feels your hand drag from his torso to chest, hovering over his heart.

Between tender kisses, hands fumble together, working in-tandem to peel his sweater away, musculature firm beneath your palms. His physique is godlike; sturdy, muscled, impenetrable.

Mouths became immersed in a mutual heat, a dance of hearts — you succumb so very quickly to it all, one hand clamoring to hold fast against his nape. Bob is easily vexed, flustered as his hands gently settle against your hips.

Fingertips trace circles over your waist, lips slow and passionate, savoring every sweet entanglement as if it might be your last. Bob withdraws, only to kiss your jaw, mouth climbing along your throat as it elicits a soft moan from you.

Arousal warms between your thighs, belly rolling into taut coils of excitement, bodies flush, the space between all but nonexistent. He’s considerate, layering your neck in kisses, no inch of flesh safe from his mouth as he finds your collar.

“Bob.” A moan is pulled from your throat, pitched with anticipation, your hand beginning to trail through his tresses. His arms cage you in, holding firm as he plants needy, wanton kisses over your chest.

There’s a sparkle in his eyes, softer, kind — he seems happy, less anxious than usual. His confidence is still shaky, leaning upon a cracked foundation, but there’s a progression in his self-esteem.

The heavy worry of disappointing you lingers still, a small constant within the back of his mind, but he pushes it aside as best he can. Bob continues to pepper kisses over your flesh, wherever he can reach, ending with your lips.

Tender hands roam his musculature, caressing him, ensuring that he’s doted upon. A warm scarlet invades his features, creeping over his skin like that of fire, stirring up inklings of arousal.

When Bob draws away, it’s to smile at you, predominantly sheepish, a boyish expression that oozes ardor. It’s his typical beam, one that you’ve grown to adore, pressing a chaste kiss to his brow, and then the corner of his mouth.

“I want to try something,” Bob murmurs, flushed at the mere fantasy of it. “If that’s alright.” Despite his lack of clarification, you are too curious for your own good, stomach churning with an excited anticipation.

“Of course,” Gooseflesh rakes over your spine when his fingers tease the waistband of your shorts, more assurance layered into his touch. Bob is still rather subservient, but he’s gotten better with initiating, too. “Want them off?”

Blushing, Bob’s head jostles in an eager nod, watching as you slip off of his lap in order to wriggle out of your shorts, socks coming with it. It leaves you in your panties, and you realize that this is the most exposed you’ve been.

With your back angled to him, his brows crease when he finds the scattered cuts laced into your flesh, the discoloration of skin. Wordlessly, he crawls closer, pressing a soft kiss to your spine.

The sensation makes you shiver, lips parting as a gasp splits through, feeling the warmth of his mouth kiss over a cut beneath your shoulder blade. Your body tingles with a pleasant ebbing, and you melt back into him.

Owlish hues bore into you, tracing along your form with a thinly-veiled appreciation, adoring, more like. Bob lets his back kiss the mattress, mussed tresses disheveled against the pillow, feeling you climb back into his lap.

Bending to kiss him, chests flush together, you feel his hands splay out along the small of your back, stroking your skin. Lips clamor together in another passionate collision, enough to draw a low groan from Bob’s throat.

His hands begin to drift lower, from the plush curve of your waist to your backside, gingerly kneading into the pliant flesh. He is cautious, painstakingly gentle as he lavishes kiss after kiss to your wanting lips.

It’s sweet, the way he touches you — always gentle, always loving. He marvels at you each time you part, as if he’s seeing you for the first time again, visibly enchanted. “You’re so pretty.” Bob murmurs, palm taut against your haunch.

“You are too — you’re perfect.” You whisper, managing a smitten smile as he huffs a light chuckle, fingertips brushing around the hem of your panties. He swallows thickly, as if silently asking for you to remove those, too.

With a nod, the exchange is left unspoken, but you understand what he wants through gaze alone. Your heart thrums violently beneath your breast, breath hitching within your throat as he helps you squirm from your underwear.

He’s getting nervous again, attempting to swallow it down as he appraises you in your entirety, awestruck. Bob’s hands relocate to your thighs, holding steadfastly to either, thumbs stroking circles into your delicate flesh.

Coaxing you closer, he inches you away from his lap, towards his chest; realization hits you, then. Before you can interject, Bob shakes his head back and forth, visibly flustered.

“I want to,” Insistent, his cadence oozed with warmth, a tranquility that eased your sudden bout of nerves. The both of you were anxious, wanting to expel that energy into one another. “I—I want to take care of you.” Bob murmurs, lips twitching into a placating smile.

Swallowing the lump within your throat, you’re abashed to confess that you want this terribly, palms steady against his shoulders. Even then, he’s holding you effortlessly, gazing up at you as if you’re the celestials themselves.

Bob doesn’t shy away, patient as ever, continuing to caress over your thighs. He’s done this before, a long time ago — it feels like some nonexistent memory, or one that he conjured up, but it’s there. His smile lingers, adoring, allowing you to move whenever you choose to.

“If you want to stop, just tap my thigh.” You murmur, belly churning with fire. You’ve never let someone do this to you before, but you trust Bob completely. He nods, waiting expectantly, unable to mask his growing excitement.

Shy, you inch forward, legs trembling beneath his touch as he gingerly nudges you closer, knees planted on either side of his head. Everything spins, the room spins, and you’re trying to steady yourself when his mouth warms your cunt.

Lips flush against your inner thigh, brief, drawing a shudder from your spine, feeling his mouth climb to the warmth oozing between your legs. His tongue raked embers across your cunt, nearly ripping the air from your lungs.

His ministrations are agonizingly gentle, rapturous, as if he might hurt you with enough pressure. Bob keens when you moan, the noise smothered within your throat as you try to keep from being too loud.

The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he sluggishly laps at your core. Your taste permeates his mouth, a bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into some lovestruck haze.

“B—Bob,” His ministrations are wholly unexpected, thighs shaking, belly twisting into a heated coil as you press a palm against the wall. The other flies to the brunette crown nestled contentedly between your thighs. “Bob!” You squeak.

A myriad of moans shake your chest, fluttering through your diaphragm and into the cool air. The ministrations of his tongue are too good, as if this skill is something he’s practiced for some time.

Below, Bob is flushed, scarlet clinging to his features as he pleasures you, unperturbed by the lewd act. He loves it, and it’s making him squirm with how receptive you are to it, cock aching with a ceaseless throbbing.

The coil of taut heat within your stomach seems to tighten as Bob greedily laps at your cunt, like that of a man starved. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his curls, urging him closer.

Your hips accidentally jolt forward, and you sputter a swift apology, body feverishly hot as you attempt to regain your balance. Bob’s hands are holding steadfastly to your hips, caressing and molding to your curves.

Admittedly, he’s finding pleasure in this, wanting to seek some relief for himself, but he’s too absorbed in you, in all of you. The taste of your cunt permeates his tongue, and he wants more, lapping at your core as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

A tremor gripped your thighs, twitching around his head as your hips lurched forward. The friction that simmers between you both is more than enough to keep him wanting, chest reverberating with a myriad of throaty groans.

“G—God, you’re so good at this,” There is a noticeable pitch within your voice, higher, wrought with ecstasy. You’re moaning his name as if it’s some desperate prayer, a confession spilling from your tongue. “Please don’t stop.”

Bob groans again at the sensation of your fingers dragging through his hair, the feeling incredibly pleasant, mouth buried against your cunt. He kisses along your slit, gesture mingling with soft, passionate laps of his tongue.

It is then that he seeks the pearl of your cunt, pressing a string of wanton kisses to the sensitive clutch of nerves. A shiver of delight grips your spine, throat erupting with a moan as your back begins to arch.

Vocal, a string of whimpered praise tumbles from your mouth, legs shaking like leaves beneath his palms. Bob wants to whine, and the sound of you moaning his name is enough to set his body ablaze, bleeding with a radiant heat.

His name rolls from your tongue with such reverence, enough to bring him to heel. Another broad stroke of his tongue laps across your cunt, gathering with it a slew of your arousal.

With a twist of his mouth, he moves to the pearl of your cunt once more, pliant maw wrapping around it, stimulating you with his suckling. Everything feels fuzzy, as if you’re trapped in some white-hot haze, ecstasy burning through your bones.

Bob holds you aloft with an effortless strength, hands still smoothing over your thighs, caressing your warm flesh. Each brief urge of your hips into his mouth sends him reeling, wanting to be good for you, pleasure you in the way you deserve.

A rush of white-hot delight sears your bones, blanketing you in a wave of pleasure, stomach swirling with a violent heat. Dizzy from such overwhelming arousal, your body began to furl, a coil of heat pulled taut within your belly.

Again, he traveled to your clit, gently suckling upon the bundle of nerves. Your poor thighs rattled on either side of his head, twitching with throes of ecstasy as he toyed with your pearl.

In this state, you weren’t going to last much longer, crumbling through his fingertips as your release slammed into you with such intensity. Bob sighed into your core, content to stay there for an eternity if you allowed him to.

Slowly, you unraveled, having to ground yourself to any shred of composure, throat wracked with a choked sob. The coil of taut heat snapped violently, giving way to an overwhelming release, a white-hot tide of bliss.

His name rolled from your tongue several times over, spoken lovingly, body trembling from the blissful aftershocks. Admittedly, your thighs weren’t up to the challenge either, muscles burning as you stilled above him.

Even still, he unknowingly works you through your release, gently lapping over your cunt, the gestures feather-light. A neediness festers within him, still treating you to little jolts of pleasure in the aftermath.

Lungs expand and deflate with swift, shallow sighs, clawing for composure. Bob breaths with you, labored yet exhilarated, cheeks tinged with a permanent shade of pink. Lips seal themselves along your thighs, peppering over your soft skin.

Inching backward, you neatly untangle yourself from him, slotted within his lap again, flustered when you catch the glistening sheen of slick on his mouth. He seems elated, happy; it’s satisfying to know that he didn’t disappoint you with his ministrations.

“Was that good?” Bob inquires, brunette tresses disheveled, an earthy halo that forms around his visage. He sits up, propped back against one arm, musculature catching upon the dim illumination that spreads through your bedroom.

“That was amazing,” Admittedly, you are surprised by how vigorous he was with it, as if his shyness had been momentarily stripped away. He politely wipes his chin off with the heel of his palm, his smile doting. “You’re amazing.”

In the afterglow, your thighs continue to twitch, spiraling down from your orgasm as you trace your fingers across his abdomen. Bob is blushing, gaze half-lidded and adoring, though it’s fleeting when you shift atop his lap.

Something firm pulses against your backside, and you watch him writhe, neck taut with strain as he tries to alleviate some of the friction. “S—Sorry,” He fumbles, withholding a husky groan. “You’re so pretty.” His murmur makes you flustered.

“Don’t be,” You assure, heart nearly beating from your chest as gazes linger on one another, oozing with a thinly-veiled affection. “I love you so much, Bob.” The words are enough to make him shiver, hand shifting toward your hip.

Bob preens beneath your soft declaration, adjusting his position, erection shuffling against you once more. He’s nearly bursting at the seams, wanting to be inside of you, feel your body against his, listen to your heartbeat.

In a soft entanglement, you kiss him, able to taste yourself upon his tongue. He’s delicate, each caress, each touch born of adoration for you. Everything slows to a momentary crawl as your hands shift toward his pants.

“I love you,” Bob murmurs, as if it’s something sacred, a hush between old lovers. He shifts, breath hitching when your fingers skim along the waistband of his pajamas pants. “I want you.” He says it reverently, making you shiver.

There is something mildly assertive within his tone, as if he’s gaining a bit of confidence, hands caressing circles into your hips. His head jostles in an acknowledging nod, allowing you to take it further, prying fabric aside.

That is when you feel it, the proof of his arousal pressing into your lower belly, oozing with precum as he slowly ruts his hips into you. Bob shivers, flushed as he writhes, desperate to be inside of you.

To your surprise, he’s painfully well-endowed, a fact that he is acutely aware of. Your pupils expand, attempting to smother your twinge of nervousness, gaze fluttering elsewhere.

A sharp moan blossoms throughout your diaphragm, palms gathering at the nape of his neck as you coax him in for a searing kiss. Lips move in a tender dance, arousal coalescing between your legs.

A groan rippled through his throat, escaping into twined mouths as you moved against his erection, enough to nearly make him sputter. His lungs burn with want, needing you as one needed air.

Bob’s desperation bleeds into you with a blinding intensity, so poignant and so palpable that it makes your knees buckle. He can’t remember the last time he’d done something like this, and even then, he only wants to remember you.

“Are you sure?” His whisper is gentle, a strained timbre that sends shivers down your spine. Through kisses and the exhales between, he wants to make sure that you’re certain, as if you might change your mind.

Pressing another lingering kiss to his mouth, you answer with assurance. “Yes,” You sigh, lips curling into a gentle, placating smile. “More sure than I’ve ever been.” With that, Bob seems to relax, his breathing heavier, heady as you begin to shift.

Wandering hands smooth themselves over the swell of your hips, clutching at the pliant flesh, his erection pressing against your thigh. A sharp inhale passes through him as you gently adjust yourself, comfortable within his lap.

A taut coil of heat pulls tightly within his abdomen, making him squirm, a familiar heat licking over his flesh as the flushed tip prods against your cunt. He’s trying not to combust, afraid it all might be a short-lived affair.

Sluggishly, you sink yourself onto his cock, drawing a moan from your diaphragm and a breathy groan from his. Bob feels your forehead, flush to his own, hot breath pluming over his features as you continue downward.

The sensation of your hands skimming over his collar is intoxicating, eliciting another half-whimper from his throat. He clings steadfastly to your hips, thumbs tracing shaky circles into your skin as you allow the both of you time to adjust.

Your fingers thread into his hair, and he attempts to stifle a groan, eyes pleasantly half-lidded as your hips shift slightly. Everything hums, a muted buzz thrumming through his body, bliss warping into the fringes of ecstasy.

Scarlet paints his features, skin flushed with crimson, body brimming with pleasure; you’ve barely moved yet. His hands cradle you even still, and as you begin to move, he’s gentle in his assistance, holding you aloft.

“Bob,” You moan his name, dragging your hips up halfway before sinking down again, a push-and-pull that makes your muscles burn with exertion. Lips pepper themselves to his jaw, and you feel his grip tighten through trembling digits. “You feel so perfect.”

A myriad of throaty groans escaped him as you began to move, hips rocking forward, disarmingly gentle and sluggish. It was a perfect storm of sensations, between your hand in his tresses, lips beginning to trail toward his throat.

Your cunt clenched pathetically, snug around his length as you continued to ride him, his cock bottoming out within you. Bob moaned, arms caging you in as you showered his neck in kisses, body vibrating beneath you.

“Please,” He huffed, continuing to caress along your thighs, digits clamping down whenever your hips lifted and lowered. Bob knew he wasn’t going to make it very long like this, cock aching for release. “D—Don’t stop.”

Everything felt so raw and sensitive, nerves set ablaze, arousal gripping him tightly as you continued to ride his cock, ensuring that you were still gentle. Your pace never became rough, nor demanding.

He thoroughly enjoyed watching you move, cautious and mindful of him, lips agape and visage one of sheer bliss. Sighs of passion tangled together, hot and fervent, breathing in the sweet air of one another.

Prying your mouth away from his throat, he’s moving in for a kiss, whimpering when your hips fall flush against his, cock buried inside of you. The pleasure is almost overwhelming for him, enhanced by you, by how much he loves you.

His name feathers from your mouth like a sacrilegious oath, repetitive, ensuring that he knows how good he makes you feel. The remnants of your previous orgasm still cling to you, thighs shaking like leaves.

Bob kisses you as if you might slip through his fingers at any given moment, unable to fully commit through wanton groans. His chest burns with a string of needy sighs, holding you tightly, feeling your skin flush against his.

Neither of you would last long in this state — him, in particular. He was dizzy, rendered stupefied by such wanton desire, his cock throbbing inside of you with an incessant need.

Drowning within ecstasy, Bob knew that he couldn’t cling to restraint any longer, seeing stars, body oozing with heat. His digits gripped you tightly, a choked groan emerging into the hollow between your throat and shoulder.

It only took one more roll of your hips for him to fall apart completely, in shambles beneath you, cum spilling inside of you. The rush of warmth soon flooded your insides, his spend sticky between your thighs.

Bob was shaking, groaning your name, embarrassed that it all seemed to end so abruptly, but he hadn’t done it in years — it would take some adjusting.

Foreheads pressed together, lips soon finding one another, disarmingly gentle as he allowed one palm to cup your cheek. His thumb danced over your jaw, the gesture unusually sweet as your hips began to slow to a mere crawl.

“Are you okay?” Gentle, you pressed a kiss to his brow, feeling him tremble beneath you, an amalgamation of heat and limbs. Bob nodded, swallowing thickly as he felt you move from his lap.

“Yeah.” Bob’s lips twitched into a smile, feeling content in the afterglow, less pent-up. His limbs felt like molten liquid, body recovering from the vast amount of pleasure he experienced.

In the solace that followed, his feet carried him over cold marble, clamoring into your bathroom, retrieving a glass of water. His stamina remained entirely intact, superhuman — the same couldn’t be said for you.

Retrieving his sweater, your tepid skin writhes into the wool despite the perspiration, finding your underwear, thighs shaking as you pull them back on. Bob returns, half-dressed, his throat flushed where your mouth had been moments prior.

Lounging along the corner of your mattress, your features warm when he steps closer, smile sheepish. “Here.” He hums, a low, blissful sound that strips away your tension, coming to sit beside you.

With several greedy swigs of water, you’re beginning to climb down from your peak, nudging the glass onto your nightstand. It’s an unspoken thing as Bob holds you, the both of you a tangle of bodies, laying down together.

“Was that good?” Bob asks again, soft, nervous that it might’ve been too quick for you. Your head presses to his collarbone, fingertips tracing indecipherable patterns into his skin.

“It was perfect,” Pleasant tingles flow through your body, soothed by his palm, caressing circles over the small of your back. “You are perfect.” The sweetness of your cadence makes his breath hitch, lips smoothing over your forehead.

A smile seems glued to your face, no disappearing in-sight, feeling his heart stutter underneath your cheek. It’s hushed, but it’s comfortable, merely basking in the presence of one another, and he’s still reeling from the whole ordeal.

Bob smiles, doe-eyed, gazing at you as if you’re the sun, his center of gravity. Keeping one arm around you, as if to shield you, the other continues to caress along your sweater-clad frame.

“I love you.” He utters, brows furrowing as if he’s swearing an oath to you, bodies leaving no trace of space, legs tangling together. As Bob holds you close, you’re almost drifting, eyes growing heavy as you cling to him.

You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

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softaestluv · 1 month ago

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prev. | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ | angst a lil, fwb, jealousy, toxic Simon, possessive sex

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the last place he visits before being sent off on an assignment.

‘Jus’ need somethin’ to tide me over, yeah dove?’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but when he’s away, his rugged and calloused hands don’t feel like yours, can’t get off unless he pictures you.

Above him. Below him. On your knees. On your back. In your mouth. Buried in your cunt.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the first place he visits when the mission is finished, doesn’t even bother going home.

And you answer, despite it being three in the morning.

“There’s my girl.” He breathes. Relieved. Dropping his bags on the floor before lunging forward to cup your face in his palms.

The claim makes you whine quietly, digging your fingertips into his wrists, arching on your tippy toes to meet his lips halfway. It’s ravenous, leaves your breath ragged, and lips thrumming with swelling blood.

He hoists you in his arms, burrowing his hands under your thighs and ass, pinching the flesh so hard it’ll bruise, but he can’t help it. He’s greedy. Selfish. Hasn’t quite coaxed himself down from the harsh realities of being ‘Ghost.’

“Ah—Simon,” You whimper, huffing hot air against his lips, “You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry, baby,” He smooths his hands, petting the backs of your thighs, “I just-”

The ‘missed you’ dies on his tongue, stops it from rolling off and filling the empty space between the two of you, but you know.

That night when he asks you to repeat him, tell him you’re all his, you don’t respond like usual. He tries his best to coax it out of your pretty lips orgasm after orgasm because he needs to hear it, but you don’t give him the pleasure.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, so he has no other option but to accept it because you’re not his. The lack of acknowledgment eats at his skin, brutal talons gnawing at his flesh when you slowly stop responding to his texts.

Shows up at your doorstep anyway because you don’t get to tell him when this stops. When you answer the door, you’re all dolled up, a tight little skirt hugging your figure, lip gloss smeared on your lips like you have somewhere to be other than on his cock.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, glaring at him, “I’m busy.”

“With what?”

You frown, “I have a date.”

He snorts, pushing past you, making a show of taking off his boots and placing them next to yours, has no intention of leaving.

“Simon,” You sigh, closing the door behind you, “I don’t have time for this right now. He’ll be here any minute.”

The statement alone pinches his temples with irritation, but that’s when he sees it, one small hickey adorned on your neck, just below your ear. His vision narrows, tunneling red, nudging you against the wall with one swift movement, tilting your jaw to get a better look at it.

“The fuck is this?” He snarls, runs his thumb over the bruise, and makes your breath hitch slightly.

“Nothing.” You mutter quietly.

“Your little date give you this? Huh?” He grits through clenched teeth, grip tightening on your jaw, drawing dimples in your skin.

“None of your business.” You spit back, but it’s far too gentle to have any real bite like it always does with him, pup with baby canines.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he seethes at the idea of another man inside of you, another man marking you as theirs when you’re his.

Sinks his teeth around the stupid mark, dragging sharp fangs against your delicate flesh, and sucks the skin viciously. Covers the ugly bruise with his own claim.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he presses you right up against your front door, so your date can hear him fucking you in two when he comes to pick you up.

‘Can yer little boyfriend fuck you like this? Huh, baby? Did he know jus’ how you like it?’

Fucks you messy and pretty, until your cheeks are tear-stained and your breaths are wrecked, hiccuping over your moans that’s he’s so mean, so cruel, asking you to say you’re his when he doesn’t even have the courage to say he missed you.

‘Be a good girl f’me, yeah? Tell me you’re all mine.’

And when you do finally say it, he carries you to your bed, fucks you slow and deliberate like he always does, like he really means it, and whispers the words against your skin.

@bbygirl9 @ailanbutterfly @amberbalcom14 @h0lydrag0ns

#cherri writes #softaestluv #cherris drabbles #call of duty #cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost smut #ghost x reader #ghost cod

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chuluoyi · 6 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄

- zayne x reader

everyone knows dr. zayne is cool as a cucumber, and it's a given for him that you're known as his wife, but when a fresh-faced new resident seemingly makes a move on you... what will he do?

genre/warnings: very suggestive, jealousy (a very jealous zayne, in fact), making out in his office, crack, fluff, hunter!reader, you and zayne have a daughter

note: inspired by that one kim min-kyu scene in business proposal :D this is actually an extension for nocturne of twilight and dawn's first light but can also be read as standalone

You hadn't seen your husband for two weeks.

There was a spring on your step when you entered Akso Hospital right after your long intercity mission. You had acquired some bruises and they weren't anything serious, so you figured you’d just have Greyson treat them. Besides, it gave you the perfect excuse to hand him some cookies as a souvenir.

And, of course, ask him to ring for Zayne to meet you once he had the time.

"Miss, do you need help?"

But a curious voice addressed you when you loitered around in the lobby, and you turned around to find a bright-faced young man with red hair and wearing doctor's coat.

"Ah, yes, I want to meet Dr. Zayne," you smiled. "Or Dr. Greyson will do."

The young doctor perked up at the names you mentioned. "Oh, are you a patient? Do you have an appointment already?"

"Hmm, no, actually I am—"

You halted mid-sentence before the words his wife slipped out, rethinking your choice. You knew of Zayne's infamous reputation in the hospital, and while almost everyone in his floor knew you, this new doctor didn't, and you thought it was best to leave it that way.

"Yeah, I already have an appointment," you nodded, plastering an thin smile. "Just tell Dr. Greyson that Y/N wants to meet him."

"Right, right, I'll page him now..." he mumbled, pulling out his pager and his phone. "I'll text him too..."

"Thank you."

"O-oh, Miss! Wait!" the young man called after you in a hurry when you turned around. "I've noticed it for a while, you have a cut on the side of your lips..."

"Ah, this..." Your fingers instinctively brushed the dried blood on your lips. You hadn’t thought the small cut was noticeable. "Yes, it’s from earlier—"

"Actually, I’m an ER resident!" he interrupted with a bright grin. "Let me treat you first!"

Caught off guard by his enthusiasm, you barely had time to react as he gently but firmly guided you towards the emergency room.

"Dr. Zayne! Dr. Zayne! Your wife is here~!"

Zayne had barely stepped into his office after a grueling surgery when Greyson barged in, all too casually, delivering the news with a grin. "She’s waiting in the lobby!"

He blinked, slightly taken aback. "Oh?"

You're back? He pulled out his muted phone, checking the notifications. Sure enough, you’d sent him a message an hour ago, letting him know you’d safely landed in Linkon.

His little, snarky wife. For the past two weeks you had been away, the house had felt lonelier. Sure, his daughter—who resembled you in personality, no less—was a bundle of sunshine and adorable beyond words, but without you, there was always that subtle void in the air.

Or maybe it wasn’t the house at all? Maybe it was just him—utterly, hopelessly whipped.

"Why isn’t she coming up to my office?" he asked suddenly, noticing the odd detail.

"Hmm, yeah, and it’s weird... why did the new resident say she’s asking for me?" Greyson mused, turning toward Zayne. "Don’t you want to meet her instead? Whatever she needs me for, I’m sure you could handle it."

Zayne promptly left his office and took long strides toward the elevator. As the doors started to close, he even half-sprinted, calling out to the person inside to hold it for him.

Okay, maybe he was a little too eager, but was it really so wrong to be this excited to see his wife again when the two of you had been apart for two weeks?

...then again, you didn't need to know. You would roast him to bits should you know he missed you this much.

Zayne got off at the lobby, expecting to find you there— only to find the usual flow of hospital staff and visitors. He was about to call you when he wandered past the emergency room and turned the corner—and that’s when he got his shock of the day.

There you were. But not alone.

With a guy.

Whose hand is touching your lips.

"It must be tough being a hunter, huh?"

The red-haired resident carefully tended to your bruised arm, wrapping it in a fresh bandage as you sighed, thinking back to the mission. "Yeah, there are definitely some hard days..."

"But despite all that, you still keep yourself in shape!" he remarked, eyeing your toned arms with a hint of admiration.

You let out a sheepish laugh, remembering those pull-ups sessions with Zayne. "Haha, that's because my husband makes sure I'm getting enough exercise..."

"You're married?!" His voice was filled with disbelief, and it caught you off guard, yet he grinned afterwards. "Wow! Is he a hunter too?"

You would've never guessed, boy. This resident doctor was cute, you thought, ever so curious at everything. You could only imagine the look on his face if you told him that the Dr. Zayne was your husband.

You were about to refute it when his fingers brushed against your lips. "Oh, sorry, let me apply some ointment here first..."

His touch felt cool to your lips and you were momentarily stunned at the contact— but then a gruff cough startled you so much you almost jumped.

The towering figure of your husband behind him. Zayne's dark gaze was fixed on the man in front of you, like he could murder the poor guy with just a look.

"Z-Zayne...?" you squeaked against the ointment on your lips, and the resident quickly turned behind him in surprise, hastily greeting him, "Oh, Dr. Zayne!"

Zayne shot the poor man a single, pointed look before his gaze shifted to you, clearly unamused.

He suddenly grabbed your hand and, without sparing the resident another glance, swiftly pulled you away. The other guy was left standing there, speechless, as Zayne led you off, leaving him in the dust.

. . .

"Zayne!"

Oh, how he actually missed his name coming out from your lips.

"Are you done with your schedule?" you asked as he pulled you into the elevator, confusion evident in the way you tilted your head. But when he didn’t answer, you glanced down at his firm grip on your arm, suddenly realizing something. "Wait, no... are you angry?"

Sigh. It irked him so much, actually. Because, how could you, after weeks—

No, he actually knew he was being irrational. He shouldn’t overreact like this just because someone else touched you. But why is he so annoyed, still?

"Wait, why?" you kept asking, wide-eyed, as the two of you stepped out and made way towards his office. "I'm not injured! I'm fine! It's just some bruises—"

Without a word, Zayne pulled you into his office, swiftly locking the door behind him. Before you could say another word, he cornered you against the wall, and you fell silent instantly.

It had been a while since he’d seen you this way—stunned, caught off guard, and utterly silent under his gaze. He studied your face closely, watching the way your breath hitched as the tension between you both thickened.

It sparked something inside him seeing you like this, a sense of satisfaction that he couldn’t quite explain, but one he welcomed nonetheless.

That was when he saw the blood on your lips. "Did you get punched in the face?"

"Y-Yes, but— it's nothing severe!" you defended, trying to convince him. "It's such a small cut anyway!"

He frowned. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"What? Hey, I was about to ask Greyson, but—"

That got him frown even deeper, even irate. "Why Greyson? When you come home with any injuries, you come to me, not anyone else."

You let out a resigned sigh, slumping your shoulders in defeat. "Because I know you'll fuss over me, duh."

"I don't fuss," he retorted.

"You do," you shot back, pursing your lips. "You try to act like this cool, calm robot all the time, but you always drone on and on whenever you patch me up. You're worried, it shows."

Zayne huffed, shifting his gaze away from you as he felt his face burn. Was he that obvious? How could he not, though, when you managed to get hurt so often and yet acted so innocent about it?

Then as if inspired, you caught on immediately. Your eyes sparkled, and a mischievous smirk tugged at your lips. "Wait, just now... don't tell me... Are you jealous?"

Damn.

"Heh, Dr. Zayne, really?" Your voice was playful now, mocking him. "Whoa, how can this be?"

How had you figured him out so easily?

You continued in a sing-song voice, putting both hands on your chest, "Ah, my heart flutters! My husband is apparently—"

Enough. This time, his patience snapped.

He didn’t hesitate even for a moment. A low growl escaped him, and in one swift motion, he crashed his lips against yours, silencing you with the most effective method he could think of.

"Mmph!" You gasped in surprise, the teasing words at the end of your tongue completely forgotten. His gray eyes gleamed. Been too long, he thought, and now he was making sure you knew just how badly he craved this.

The kiss was searing as he deepened it, his tongue seeking yours with urgency. "Hngh!" You let out a feeble whine when he teased you by biting your lips.

Zayne held back a snort. One of his hand then strayed inside your hunter uniform, unclasping your bra with a flick.

"—?!" Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening, and before you could process it, he pulled away. But you were far from right in thinking it was over. The dangerous gleam in his eyes kept you tense as he swiftly removed his glasses...

...before he pulled you back towards him and claimed your lips once again.

With a swift, commanding motion, he guided you toward his desk. His papers scattered at the sudden movement, but he had you bent over it regardless, forcing your body to arch. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, while his right hand fondled your breasts, repeatedly squeezing, palming and switching between them.

"Mmm...!" You let out a strangled moan, instinctively holding onto his shoulder, feeling the way how he groped you ignited your core. "Ahh..."

Your body was tantalizing as always. Hardened and sometimes bruised from your work it may be, but to Zayne, you were still beautiful as ever.

When you gasped for air, he decided he was done with your swollen lips. His lips then trailed down to your neck, sucking hard on it, creating a squelching sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"W-what's... gotten into you...?" you breathed out, tangling your fingers in his hair, hyperaware of his hands still roaming over your nipples.

In response, he nibbled at your skin and flicked your breasts at the same time, causing you to freeze and draw a sharp, hitched breath. "Haah...!"

Unbeknownst to you, his lips curled wickedly at your reaction, and he continued to pepper your neck with series of wet sucks as if to mark you altogether. You writhed under him, whiny and sighing, relishing his hot breath on your skin.

You were utterly at his mercy, pliant and helpless in his hands. There was a deep satisfaction in knowing he was the only one who could bring you, his lawfully wedded wife, to this state—

Still, he wouldn’t allow you to be indecent in a place like this. When he finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, eyes dark with lust, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of your jaw. "Don’t tempt me," he muttered, voice low and raspy.

You gazed up at him, your heart pounding. "Zayne..." you whispered, a whine broke through the heat on your flushed face.

His expression softened just enough, a flicker of tenderness cutting through the intensity. Pretty. That’s what you were, undeniably so. How he had missed out on you so long once was his greatest regret.

Carefully, he helped you sit upright, his touch gentle as he clasped your bra and began buttoning up your uniform, disheveled from his earlier ministrations.

The gentle way he touched you was a stark contrast to how it was earlier. "Is that a new way to treat busted lip?" you nudged his collar, feeling a little braver now.

"For bad wives, yeah."

"I'm not a bad wife! Just disobedient on some occasion."

Zayne's fingers brushed your face as he finished with your uniform, his dark-gray eyes steady on you. You pouted.

"You're the one who's bad," you accused with slight resentment, not missing a beat as the heat between your legs started to dissipate. "Leaving me unfinished like that."

"Hmm? Am I?" he murmured, the faintest amusement in his tone.

"You have to take responsibility tonight, you big meanie," you mumbled, your pout deepening as you avoided meeting his gaze.

Zayne snorted at the sight of you—so precious in his eyes, his thumb lightly grazing the corner of your lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart skip, before whispering in your ear:

"Well, if your voice won't wake our daughter, that is."

Epilogue

Not long after, just as you had gathered yourself and were preparing to leave the hospital to head home, a sudden knock at the door of his office startled you both.

Quickly, you moved to sit on the patient’s seat, feigning nonchalance as you braced yourself for whoever was on the other side. Zayne reached for the door, but before he could unlock it, a familiar voice called out.

"Excuse me!" the resident's voice sounded a bit hesitant but firm. "Dr. Zayne, the miss left her handbag earlier!"

Zayne let out a low, irked sigh. You glanced at him curiously, watching as he opened the door and came face-to-face with the redheaded resident.

Without a word, he extended his hand, and the resident blinked before handing over the bag.

"I-is the miss still here?" the young doctor asked, almost intimidated by his unfriendly gaze.

"Ma'am," Zayne corrected, his voice flat.

"Huh?"

"Call her ma'am. She's someone's wife."

"O-oh, and her husband is—"

"Me. I am her husband."

Your eyes widened in surprise at the matter-of-fact exchange, heat rising to your cheeks as Zayne’s words hung confidently in the air. He curtly thanked the poor resident before slamming the door shut in his face.

Your jaw practically hit the floor. "Zayne!" you gasped, staring at him as he turned back towards you, entirely unbothered.

Your husband was as cold as the snowman he often made, but somehow the way he boldly declared he was your husband was just so him that it made you so giddy.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms with a playful smile. "You’re really jealous, huh? How?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze still fixed elsewhere, most definitely trying to save his dignity.

You chuckled softly, stepping closer to him with a teasing sway. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, turning him to face you, and you winked at him mischievously.

"Well, I’m all yours. But if it makes you feel better, maybe I’ll stay away from any ER residents for a while~"

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